They cluster into the retail stores like bees
at work–clustered in their family grounds
and calling to their cars like lost children:

“Where are you?” They scan the lot, squint
into the sun, arms laden with God-
knows-what: polo shirts sewn and steam-
pressed in some hidden-away factory
overseas, a diving watch–water safe, $20
on sale–its blue and glimmering 
artificial face like a vivid and synthetic shale. 

“I don’t know what to get for him,”
I hear one woman grouse by my car– “And so
I got him one of everything.” Imagine
a line of one hundred thousand bags
stretched out, a wealth of riches no one needs,
as if she had to justify her love
with all the wrapping left behind.