A little siren sleighbell shrieking
outside the Jewel-Osco,
binds together all hypnotized
wayfarers passing,
by parting one and all
from a little pocket money
with the following
incessant incantation:
Even in your most perfect
earthly dream, passing stranger,
your picture of recompense
might rig the whole game,
such that—by the time
you finally stagger
sunburned and blistered,
hardened but tenderized,
and with terrible headaches
in each of your heels
into your private-beach-
notion of heaven,
your homecoming'll be dread-
fully anticlimactic.
No one to talk to
about any of this;
none to compare,
contrast,
to rejoice
with, concerning
the everlasting-
ness of your bliss—since
of course,
the whole place
is literally
all yours—is
completely
deserted.
