Somehow, all these shiny vehicles
Are destined for people who will magically
Appear here, potential in hand.
The man will hands in pockets approaches the
Red, low-slung car,
His wife, arms folded, stands back
Near the small, boxy
Pewter family vehicle.
She clutches her purse
Alert for any predators.
He is pumped on the hunt:
His eyes are bigger than his stomach
She is sullen, knowing him;
Not knowing him.
They have come here
Under a cloud of disagreement
That is not really yet
A major storm.
The salesperson, a friendly, youngish woman,
Approaches the wife
Asking if she would like
Some help with
Making a sensible choice.
This is exactly what the wife feared most:
“We don’t really need a new car,” she says.
“We’re just looking. Our current car is fine.”
She gestures towards the shiny oldish car outside.
“Ah,” says the youngish woman. “I know what you mean.
Don’t worry,” she says; “We won’t sell him anything
You don’t like.” She winks, and the wife relaxes
“So how’s the mileage on this one?”
The man asks. “Excellent,” the youngish
Salesperson smiles at him.
“But not much room for groceries.”
He looks at his wife
And realizes that the sky has cleared
Maybe they should just
Continue on home.
The youngish woman watches them go
Hand in hand, knowing . . . .