I hate the mall because the mall hates me.

all of the sales racks are soaked
with unknown colors and unfamiliar forms
shirts with too many buttons
pants made from shiny linens with no pleats and no cuffs
multihued socks seemingly meant to bewilder chameleons
pockets and buckles and zippers on everything
none of it looks right
can't seem to discern the good clothes from the trash
i used to know the difference
something must be wrong with me
i've heard about this before
they say it happens even in the best neighborhoods

retail panic
that's what it is
i'm caught in the grips of a retail panic
latent psychosis roused by sudden stylistic slippage
sales girl wants to help me
i would let her
if i thought she could
but i'm quite sure
her skill set doesn't include
much more than folding and
cash registering
while smiling

so i give her a pale, toothless grin and a
no-thanks-just-looking
she disappears behind a green wool curtain
leaving me alone to continue my no-thanks-just-looking
at painfully orange polo shirts
massive arrays of pastel foam flip-flops
wide leather belts with white stitching
eyes squinted desperately
scanning the hangers and tables and shelves
seeking something recognizable
anything that will help me
escape the grasp of my retail panic

© 2005 by justin michael cresswell