Food Court

I don’t know whether it’s the Drunken Mall Santa or

The extra terrestrials in the hippy boutique,

But something is cosmically up.

This must be some sort of land of pure symbol

Where people who are perfectly capable of walking instead

Ride around on scooters among adverts of

The “Them” whose existence

They’ve only just barely warmed up

To the notion of acknowledging.

I can’t be the only one to stand by the Play-Zone

And think, “Just what exactly is going on here?”

And I think the kids

Left there by their parents

Probably think similarly to me.

Maybe this is the last place where

You can keep to yourself and

Not be called “unsociable”.

Because anyone who would even want to come here

Must be interested a little in

Whatever exactly this is all about, and

There’s nothing Anti- about that.

“The poet must not avert his eyes” Herzog says,

But I think if he had ever been here,

He would at least take pause before saying that.

In any case,

This is a good place to escape that impossible double bind of,

“You must do or feel or think

That which is only acceptable if you do it

Of your own desire.”

That Old-Fashioned Filial Favorite.

An SSRI may balance your chemistry, but

It won’t do much to prepare you for the

Sight of a foundling flâneur

Fixing to find out he’s

Far too fentylated to

Fly very fast.

And coming off of them

Makes you remember

The feeling of someone saying,

“What?” after you spoke at what you felt

Was a perfectly acceptable volume.