It's Sunday, and I've sinned...I crossed over to the dark side, crossed the threshold to Hades, 'cause Jack needed new sneakers.
thru the doors, and my teeth are clenched...the enormity of the place makes my ears ring...the lights furrow my brow...and the piles of stuff
I remind myself there are valid reasons to descend into hell on a Sunday...
batteries, band-aids, benadryl,
and kid's feet do grow
(all right, just eat it)
Sweatshop remorse alone is not sufficient penance for my egregious transgression.
I consider sitting on a stormy windswept moor to embroider a scarlet W on my favorite hoodie, but decide instead to pay alms to our farmers' market.
(bless me farmer, for I have sinned)
I can breathe easy here
the breeze off the Hudson washes away all trace of the ick I seem to feel on my skin
the healthy looking vendors smile and offer their artisan wares
breads, cheeses, jams, spring greens
I gladly hand over nine dollars for 12 ounces of mesclun and arugula
Mia & I snack on milk and honey
local bleu cheese with honey supplied by an amish farmer
(all unpasteurized, of course)
and what do we eat the manna from above on??
...the road to hell...