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.