The jungle spy head quarters of Walmart in Temple.

I'm kind of embarrassed to admit
that when I feel lonely I go to supermarkets--
When I feel out of control I grip for
the worn bar of a shopping cart--
not the little shopping carts for newlyweds
and one bed room apartment owners
who have two golden retrievers and a tabby--
I'm looking for the ones that are Mom sized that
seven year olds can ride on the fronts of.
I don't shop for tank tops or shoe laces--
I want to run my fingers over bokchoy
and oregano and smell freshly watered
parsley from the little boxes in the
produce isle.
I want skinny cow ice cream sandwiches
like my mom used to buy.
Yes, yes I actually feel calmed by Walmarts.
We didn't go to Walmart often 
when Billy and I were in elementary school
(for my mother's own sanity I imagine) 
because Walmart was never just
a super market. We set out with a goal to
find whatever we were imagining
and painted that reality over ever aisle
in the shaky frayed brush strokes 
of a seven year old safari princess
with a light up wrist watch
and her four year old brother
who thought she was nothing short 
of a nebula--
We wanted to walk in the Amazon Rainsforest
but did't want to think about the mosquitoes
or the malaria-- we set out
on spy missions with no goal
other than an excuse to roll ungracefully 
on the cold tile floors and collect
the dirt of all the cuff buttons
and tiring white sneakers.
We were the collected rations
from the sample stations. Cranberry granola crumbs
and the corners of pretzel bites.
We stacked the little cups to form castles
on the floor beneath wracks of plus
sized women's coats on clearance.
Oh! and we had never been lost despite
having gone to the costumer service station
more than once to report that we were missing--
we just enjoyed the power to summon 
our mother using the voice that boomed through 
the clossal bones of the store like God
or Jesus. We had never been far from
the squeaky wheeled cart of our mother--
But, no, I lied-- we were completely and totally
lost. We fell in a labyrinth of indecisive 
imagination and impending car rides home
with melting ice cream sandwiches.
Yes I still get lost like that in Walmarts, Giants
and Shop Rites and there are spy missions
I store for if I ever find myself seven years old again--
and yes I still want to report myself
missing at the customer service desk
to summon my mother with the voice
of a God I've been searching for
the voice of but she's not here. It's only me.
It's me and an empty shopping cart
and boychoy and parsley and ice cream sandwiches.