Foresighted Christmas Too Late For The Time Machine Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

we piled the tiny oranges high
in the produce section:
ripe, bright, of molded plastic.

the steaks, fine cuts that couldn't be
eaten with knife or fork ever.
there, on the meat counter

where the smaller dolls shopped.
ringing it all up,
and the canned goods with colourful labels

finger nail sized-with nothing in them but
doll air.

if I had known how many in-between times
there would be;
in-between jobs, in the future,

hardly tiding us over, maybe
I would have traded that Christmas toy in,
that shiny grocery store with its white

plasticine counters

so darling, built to scale-
for shelf stable groceries
a twinkie or two and

astronaut food; whole

boatloads of Tang
breakfast drink
with the concomitant fruit filled

toaster pastries; meek
doughtnuts powdered with sugar snows;
mercury dimes for the Operator

for calling Home.

but I don't think so.

mary angela douglas 15 november 2015