where I get drunk on $10 T-shirts
and tassel necklaces. I flirt with throw pillows.
I pass out on washable indoor/outdoor rugs.
Like the second hand on a broken clock,

my molded plastic cart stutters through the store.
I’m the hours here, the minutes, the years.
My children stay small, wear sock feet forever.
We drink up the aisles together, days so delicious,

their needs and mine so simple, so easily
filled—a mug, vitamins, love that isn’t
grudging. Sunlight in the parking lot
hangs on my shoulders like a lover.