drifting between factory woven rugs and pillows,
through the reek of Swedish meatballs,
past blue-haired punks selecting plastic flatware,
couples shoving strollers past futons, cribs.
I followed you up the escalator--
you took the steps two at a time, humming,
eager to reach the sales racks,
desperate to touch paper lampshades,
and debate the virtues of purple napkin rings,
geometric tumblers, wooden spoons.
I cornered you beside the bathrooms,
where you ignored my questions,
and mocked my aspen saltshaker set.
But I must ask again, Henry--
Have you come to smash it all?
Or is your ghost into cut-price wicker?
Do we need a revolution here,
or just new towels?