Max Reif - Harvest

They come,
as to a sporting event,
through the big doors at Target,
out onto the aisles
set parallel like rows of crops.

They come imagining
some things in their brains,

and leave
with these same items
in a bag, under an arm,
or in a cart.

Is this not Magic?

Max Reif

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/harvest-11/