drafty (in here)

The Mall

Surely this is what heaven
is like, soft music coming
from everywhere and nowhere
all at once, fountains plashing
gently in the distance, discount
massages with your clothes on
by people who don't really speak
your language.

Stores (little rooms really)
each dedicated to a different need,
the need to have your lipstick smell
like blueberries, the need
to be very clean, the need to free
yourself from pain and dental decay,

the need to sleep without dreams, the need
to wake up refreshed and sweet-smelling,
all your farts contained in a recyclable,
disposable bottle, the need to travel
to foreign lands like India and Mexico,
the need to eat at McDonald's.

Everything gleams at the mall, even you.
The security guards are slow,
larger than life fathers, fathers who have
all the answers and don't drink.

Your mother is there too, the pony with the slot
for quarters outside the sunglass palace.
If you look at her just right,
your lids half-closed,
you can see her bones gleam beneath her skin
as she rocks you gently, rocks you
and then asks for more.