The mannequin’s enormous breasts
mesmerize the girl on tippy toes
who dangles a sweat-stained
fedora from nipple to nipple.
Racks of sport coats wilt
their plaid surrender. Two octagonal
clocks compete to advertise
the same menthol cigarettes above
a row of VHS tapes leaning
like slanted headstones toward
four shrink-wrapped Old Yellers.
Spine-bent record sleeves below
beam their faded cardboard dream
for us to have a Merry Christmas.
Their trains and snow and pipe-clenched
fathers reek like the morning after
a relapse bender. When her mother
yells it’s time to go the girl
throws her arms around a plastic waist
and whispers in its navel.