AMAZON SANTA

Through the looking glass, 

I wince at a younger me, 

toy catalogs in primary colors strewn about, 

a red wine stain mocks me 

from the white melamine desk,

as I click away.

Days later in the kitchen 

on the other side of the house, 

I feel the rumble of 

big boxy trucks, 

making their way down, 

the mile-long dirt drive,

breaking branches, 

like knives,

leaving deep wounds in farmland, 

scaring grazing horses half to death, 

delivering the surrogates,

the plastic proxies, 

the stand-ins, the substitutes

for love, time, family, passion.

Decades later,

my awakening is complete,

my grounding firm,

and today

I imagine a warehouse, 

a fulfillment center,

overstocked in Ohio 

with overtired men and women, 

bodies straining under 
the weight of color-coded bins.

And just this week, 

I’m on the inside again,

this time 

watching curious as one of my own, 

now a mom of her own, 

categorizes, sorts, stores, assembles, 

picks up after, 

her own brood of two. 

I eye the catalogs on her counter,

dog-eared pages full of intent, 

believing that her daughters of four and less 

must have, gotta have, absolutely need 

the latest singsong, sing along, alphabet soup, talking map. 

And once again, 

I watch

big boxy trucks,  

make their way up her paved 

suburban drive as the frenzied dog barks 

and chases after 

the Amazon Santa,

paid for with hours away from home, 

at a desk, 

doing things that bring more.

Always more.