Retail Therapy
Yesterday I found myself slumped
into the saddest of trenches,
for no particular reason
other than a new moon cycle.
Instead of flopping myself
in my studio’s armchair to write,
I drove to the mall for an outing
probably more expensive than
what a therapist would charge
for an hour in his armchair.
I wandered into the shoe store—
something about leather
which grounds me, whether
the flimsy strapless heels
or the closed-toed pumps or walkers.
Already lugging two bags, I meander
into the lingerie store for silk
to accentuate my only remaining
middle-age curves, skipping over the thongs
and hesitating at the push-up section.
I try on four or five pairs of underwear
to accentuate my butt area,
the part of a woman which shares the
secret of her fitness, that I work on
each morning at seven.
I arrive at the boutique who sells my favorite
blouses, gather some more bags, walking out
with an almost terminal case of rope burn,
until I finally decide it’s time to head back to my car.
On my way I stop, smile, and realize
there’s no better way to fight trench warfare.
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