After the Sandwich
by Michael Kinnaird
i love mondays at the mall,
very few people, but all of them count:
young punks smoking by the sign that says not to,
security guards pretending not to notice;
sweet sixteen sluts all hair and nervous make-up,
twenty-something lesbians occasionally getting lucky;
young men on the fountain taking mental pictures for later,
housewives power-walking with their neighbors
like prisoners circling the yard,
like schizos pacing the day room,
the lonely, the losing, and the lost,
shuffling through the commercial desert.
as i release the safety and check the extra clips
i realize how much i love them all.
i am with them and of them.
i am home.
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