Feeding Spam to Venus Flytraps
Misdirected last minute shoppers with
late-December arms in slings
search for intimates for that special someone
in the Garden Center at Walmart
among them, a handful of pedophiles
and garden variety dirty old men
lick their chops over the long-limbed
pouty-lipped tweens in plaid uniform skirts
hiked well above their smooth unlined knees
shaking their boxes of Jujubes
in sync with their iPods - earbuds
directing jaundiced eyes to patches of skin
beneath unbuttoned starchy white blouses -
giggling their way down the hardware aisle
and into the Garden Center
to again feed Spam to the Venus flytraps.
Were Freud or his pal Jung here
with their unconscious what-not-to-do lists
we could freely associate the times
we abused the hell out of ourselves
on those Thursday afternoon breaks
during summer's dog days now that we
with years of fifty-minute hours under our belts
have finally managed to tuck away
all our Adlerian inferiorities into
the walk-in water closets of our minds
where now we drool
onto the latest graphic comix
special bondage issue, until our supervisor,
suddenly re-energized,
snaps us back into the ever-present present
with its incessantly-blinking Christmas lights
beckoning the homeless to leave
their cardboard duplexes double-parked
over the heating grates outside in the latest cold snap
and join us through the automatic doors
and into the world of joy to the world
with only four shopping days left
for a complimentary cup of holiday joe.