Ode To Karen Poem by Dairedee BurrisLandwehr

I'm tracing my way through cracked linoleum
Following lines etched with footsteps of those who passed before me
They are faceless and unknown, shadows;

They pass through aisles of mass produced plunder
Trying to decide on red or blue...
'Which one defines me more as the person I hope to portray? '

Children screaming for toys made by ones younger than they are,
Barely seeing a margin of the profit they create,
Or a glimpse of the commercialized world they fuel.

I shadow a woman in her 40's - I assume,
Lingering beside her in the shampoo aisle
'Do I want my hair to 'shine with radiance'? '

We lock eyes among the fresh vegetables
Over a bundle of green beans
Dripping wet from the automatic spritzer.

She glances over her shoulder in the goose-bump cold milk section
and I wonder if she adds some vodka
To her Holiday Eggnog.

As she nears check-out, I do
Taking in her short, teased hair, brown with gold high-lights;
Wrinkled skin slathered with concealer - why hide those laugh lines?

I look at her neutral pumps in a low heel, sensible,
Her dress suit in a boring not brown or tan
Fake nails painted champagne pinkish brown.

I want to shout at this woman: 'Why? '
I want to dress her in loud, mismatched colors, and
Take her to a street corner where we throw change at passersby.

I want to take her drunk driving on country roads
70 mph, gravel flying, no brakes as we cut corners
Feeling more alive than at any Sunday church service.

I want to know if she laughs while she's high
Raids the kitchen at 3 am, drinking milk from the jug, or
Forgets to put the toothpaste cap on, blaming everyone else.

But this woman just gives me a strained smile
One I'm sure she uses with probably everyone
A facade to the outside world, herself included.

I want to know what she drives;
Probably a new car with a million safety features
In a boring color with low gas millage, paid for with a loan.

I want to know where she lives;
A modest two story with a two car garage, and
A fenced - in yard for her children who ignore her.

But I stand there by check-out, checking her out
Realizing that this woman probably believes she is happy
And might live out her existence in relative obscurity.

She gives me one more nervous glance before paying with plastic
The cashier swiping her card with bored expertise
Then handing her the curling receipt.

I decide her name is Karen, suited to her modesty
And as she leaves I yell, 'Good -bye, Karen! '
Giving her night some significance other than Lasagna Night, again.Yippee.