Walmart
I want to walk down the spacious aisles
with white beams crossing each other in a grid overhead.
I’m sentimental for three dollar shirts where the hem comes undone in a week.
I imagine my mom’s dry hands
with long red fingernails
gripped around the blue handle of the shopping cart,
her lips pressed back in a closed-mouth, half smile.
Her eyes cooly observing as she strolls from aisle to aisle,
carelessly unaware or rather purposely unaware
of the fact
that she can’t afford to shop there.
She’s not paying attention to how badly her hair has thinned.
My heart sees her the way it always has;
majestic in her full bosom and red nails,
pushing a shopping cart like a queen.
Her hair is white at the temples and the rest hangs in a low curl
of bottle brown.
Yet her cooly observing eyes are still regal, beautiful in Walmart,
beautiful in shabby sandals,
stretching a dime
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