Our Art

How many of us would it
take to move the Wal-mart?
Not the sort of move by petition, court or
protest but to push it like a shopping cart.
Just a few inches, maybe a foot to start?

How many around the giant box digging
fingers to foundation? A million muscles
tighten like wound springs until the
concrete block sings and whines. Until the
things inside quake and rock.

Stock topples. Indentured slave-made
shoes lay with soles to heaven. Sweat shop
shirts fall into tired heaps. Fish sticks
leap from the freezer case in a spray of
frost. Bags of chips are lost, smashed like greasy
dominoes.

We inhale dust and grunt. The building jerks. Weight
shifts. We lift left inch by inch and let it
drop about a foot from where it was found. Sirens
sound in the distance. The sign falls

apart. Now it reads “al- art.” We know it will be back.
We know. But for now this is profit’s mausoleum. For
now, this is our museum.