In a bun both New Jersey
could fit in, Aunt Gwen blabs
in a gold dress with matching bracelets,

points a turkey leg like a revolver
and shoots. Working with the public kills me.
I should know. I’m dead. I’ve been at Macy’s

forever. I’m the public, also her nephew--
the gun has a chomp out of it. Customers
should be shot,u

no questions asked. On Black Friday
I go shopping while Aunt Gwen
USairs back to Indianapolis--she

refuses to work that day. In Macy’s,
I see salespeople, drooped, grinning,
hungry to make a sale, hungrier to go home.

The mall looks like a McDonalds
paper cup floating on a river.
Waterfall coming up.

 

# # #

Aunt Gwen by Kenneth Pobo
originally published April 16, 2008