by Matt McBride

It’s difficult not to indulge in megalomania as the glass
doors swing wide at the press of your foot on rubber padding. And why
not? The popcorn comes in six gallon tins. Just as there are no
windows, there is no guilt. Isn’t everything here made to be to be
disposed of: the NASCAR latch hook kit, the salt and pepper set
painted like pigs wearing aprons? Even the music that echoes through
the speakers you can’t see. Don’t you forget it before you hear it,
though you hum to it nonetheless? Couldn’t the recorded voice at the
automated checkout be anyone? Isn’t its anonymity comforting, like
sex with a stranger? And as you leave, can you not look at the posted
pictures of our missing children, their smiling lips like tiny scars,
and imagine how wonderful it will be when they finally come home?