Automatic for the People

 

Shoppers, take this time to please your companions.

Right, left, right—obviously they take your attention

via clockwork sales talk. A drop of discoloration

is being processed when you talk to them—

lover, robber, gender, industrially colorblind—

magical are their actions to repeat the blooms

of magnolia on marginalia, high-price of intentions

under duress. If all good shoppers are careful enough

to be attracted to the sheen of the lights, or to something

strange like Mambrino’s Golden Helmet, I would like

to think that life in a crowded place is clueless

about the appeal of mass nouns to the art

of small things like undeclared birthdays

and acupuncture points. Inside the fitting room,

there’s a hunk of love, all spruced-up with a groovy

sense of purpose; this I’m referring to all types

of clothing as professionals, feeling the way

we feel right now, are available on site to serve you,

always. But what is fake measurement if everything

at this moment