the big clothing store

with my fist full

of coupons,

and pretend dollars,

i go into the big

store with cheap clothes,

made

by

child labor in countries

far away

where we don't

have

to think about them

and their

hard young

lives.

i know what's going on,

but i buy

there anyway.

i think of small hands,

sewing

on buttons, bent

over machines,

processing polyester

shirts

and sheets.

the cobblers of school

age

with glue guns,

putting together

winter boots.

everything falling apart

and faded,

or shrunk,

with one

wash or two.