Mart-Mart

quick sales and a western breeze
promise victory at the Mart-Mart,
the parking lot askew with training wheels
no one quite sure where to stop,
all yellow lines crooked
revealing a pattern to helicopters overhead
but granny drivers and grass-mowing junkies
seem confused,
the mulch pile
a dead-end, no hocus-pocus now,
just slim, stooping men
clad in jean jackets moving around inside,
suggesting leaf blowers
to hot-air aficionados,
their silver carts begging for utensils, pillow cases, junk food,
steering wheel gizmos that twirl,
red then purple, one non-stop checker
scanning coupons for last year’s plastic swimming pools
rolled up in aisle five for young marrieds
carrying their kids in side cars attached
to tiny motorcycles all the fashion now,
riffing loud exhaust burps,
but tired grandpas sit in recliners
trying out adjustments to promised bliss,
each electric switch cascading pleasure
to extremities grown like pretzels
at the carnival.