A Gentrified Face in the Parking Lot of Stop and Shop

Morgan Driscoll

Here we are with shopping carts,
with seasons processed into years,
and children’s names misplaced among
the plastic bags or paper.
We were bundled once by strawberry girls,
the absurdity of birthday mills,
the directions to the theaters that would screen the foreign films.
We spoke of Sontag at the barbecue,
Abramovic at Little League
while reassessing values in our
slide towards bourgeoisie.

Our only ties now, errands and vicinity.

No more ski trips, summer meadows,
shared mixed feelings about parents,
traffic jams in SUVs
Lady Gaga testing our endurance.
No more the back yard local beer;
sun shade on the pond,
children running somewhere out of thought,
thank God.
They taught us that acquaintance had a stay fresh period.
In the midst of our suburban sprawl
We were mirrors for each other's fears
bohemian frames on colonial walls.

I guess the things we had in common
were common after all.