Walmart

I plot my escape from the million dollar mansions on the hill
Andrea Gibson's spoken words swimming around in my head-
There are no pretentious health food stores for hundreds of miles
I resort to driving to the nearest Walmart
With her words fresh in my mind to keep from feeling depressed
In the economically devastated city,
Its dilapidated buildings crumbling…
Poverty rears it’s head in the parking lot;
Rusty caravans with dings and dents,
Duct-taped garbage bag covered windows,
Thick gray emissions trailing behind…

There are three types of people here:

The Mexicans.
Are you scowling at my generalization?
I used to call them brown-skinned.
Be proud of my growth and we’ll move on.
They crowd the aisles in packs.
Moving slowly like cattle.
The seven year old girl with the belly shirt and dirty, grimy face
Slaps her little sister’s hand as she pulls out greeting cards.
The mother with fully exposed camel toe,
Rolls of heavy flesh spilling over her too tight jeans,
Nipples erect in a barely there shirt and over-conditioned store,
Her subtle peroxide-orange hair pulled back from her round face,
Remains oblivious to her children
As she puts her energy into a decision
Between Mountain Dew and Mountain Lightning.
Dad is barely 5ft with his cowboy hat on
He shifts his weight in bright turquoise pants and matching snakeskin boots
Pearlized bull horns with hints of coral adorn his pleather belt
And work harder to weigh his pants down
Than hold them up.

The White Trash.
Still scowling?
Had I been born a little to the left I’d be poking fun at myself.
These kind don’t need to travel in packs.
Their obese bodies waddling too and fro
Knees brushing against each other awkwardly,
Overburdened by their responsibility.
Just one woman on her scooter wheelchair fills the aisle.
Legs spread to accommodate the expansive mound of flesh that fills her midsection
And brushes against the basket
Greasy potato chips, equate weight-loss shakes and hungry man microwaveable dinners
Fill her cart
Though the hemorrhoid cream and ex-lax are still visible.
Luckily food stamps are accepted regardless of nutritional info.

Us.
We are the others.
The ones who didn’t realize it was the third.
The day the SS checks arrive and the pilgrimage begins.
We try hard to keep our eyes ahead.
We have a goal, just one thing, in and out.
Snubbing our nose at the impulse shoppers,
The overweight, undernourished, illegal
Less-fortunate sons and daughters,
Absentee fathers
And overwhelmed, underpaid mothers
Who were born in the wrong families and went to the wrong schools

WE don’t actually shop here.
We are the self righteous snobs.
The ones who go home to our cushy homes
And write stuff like this.
I take my dollar thirty-seven dollar purchase of vegetables and sunblock,
My contribution to injustice
The generalizations clear in my head...
Listening to Chris Pureka on the drive home
In my gas guzzling Scion box-car, aware of the ironies
Skilled in my justifications, happy in my prowess
Picking and choosing my causes...
Thinking to myself,
we all sell[out] for less.