Retail therapy

you get this sanded-down feeling 
behind your eyes so you blow off
work you drive downtown and pay
too much for parking you’re sick
of circling the block you walk
limping on your bad foot you feel
the nails in your bones you see
a sign for a thrift store that promises
to be the cure for boredom the cure
for existential anxiety the cure
for adult identity crises the cure
for that sanded-down feeling
behind your eyes you explore
the store it’s full of taxidermied shit
a real human skull a box of quartz
crystals a painting of a woman
making out with the devil and one
of those carnival machines that tell
your fortune for 25Β’ the whole thing
just makes you sneeze you leave
in search of anything else maybe
a drink maybe a conversation
with a stranger who’ll convince you
that reincarnation is real it’s hard
to believe in anything with this
sanded-down feeling behind your
eyes you try a furniture store it looks
so bougie you turn around at once
and walk out you try a plant store
it’s hot and muggy and full of those
tiny flies you keep on up the next block
you go slow but still you’re sort of
out of breath you’re forgetting how
to breathe you remind yourself
that an unchanged body is no better
than a dead one you briefly catch
your reflection in the storefront window
you look happier than you feel inside
that sanded-down feeling catches
a spark like the head of a match
in a flash you remember you’re broke
but you’re beautiful and the price
of life is you exist to exist to exist

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