After the asking and getting of the things
I left California because everything about
everybody was on sale. Seattle, while pretending
not to care, is the same, except it is not BMWs
and breasts but Patagonia nano-puffs and
Subarus. It comes down to satisfaction
and what makes that happen for me.
Do I care that people see me as
successful, hip, congruent
with the Master Culture?
At 49, no. But I do own a Subaru.
But that is not what this poem is about. To a degree
I hinge my feelings of worth and gratification on items.
I work hard, I care for my patients, my family,
I deserve _____________. So, of course,
I obsess on that Joel Tudor fin, or those Rome
snowboard bindings, or the ideal hoodie.
I research them, read reviews, check prices,
wait until the coupon code is activated.
It is consuming, the consuming of glorified
idols. I get the thing in the mail, get that
rush of dopamine. Then it needs to happen
again to have the same effect. But
what do I need to order? My family is
healthy, sane, loving. I’m not going
to give everything away and join
a non-materialistic cult, but I could
start one? No. For the first time
in my life I really don’t need
anything. And I am thankful.
And I sit and forget to want.
My body doesn’t know what
to do, like it is now unnecessary.
I want to molt it off
like an achy sock
and leave it at the