Night at Target
Ryan Bender-Murphy

You are called out
to where

those clothing
racks have

spent
their lives

longing for tongues,
pressured by
the fluorescence

to appear
bare.

Every one
of your childhood
days falls

off a shelf.

Your mother bites
open the fullest one;

small cards slide out,
then even
smaller voices.

This is
the last time
you will ever arrive
here.

This is what
the basket hanging
from your hand
is for.

1996 © 2012