Leah on Shopping

Animal Crackers have gone the way of Farina.
Leah wouldn’t be caught dead carrying

the little red and yellow box with its string handle.
Forget Farina. I tell her when I was a kid, I ate it

laced with brown sugar and butter. She rolls her eyes
at my dinosaur tale. I avoid stores that offer

pint-sized shopping carts, with pint-sized flags
and signs: Future Shopper. Leah doesn’t need

inducements. Today a lanky old man guards
samples of Special K’s new cinnamon and pecan.

Leah wolfs a miniature cupful. More, she says.
The man hands her a coupon. She thrusts it at me,

grabs a full cup with each hand and darts away.
Clutching a super-sized cereal box, I say,

Let’s go to the park. You can climb on the monkey bars.
Leah says, Let’s go to the mall and buy a pink bear.

But you have a million stuffed animals.
Arms akimbo, she slits her eyes, stamps her Nike sneaker,

and says, I need to rescue another one from the shelf.