A hallmark stamp
across the neatly folded construction paper
of a brightly lit department store.
Moments away from paper cuts
slicing the tips of my dried out fingers
pedaling the tops of lightly frosted cards.
I could hand you generic words
that stamp the bellies of these pressed copycats.
In the hands of undeserving fathers
who feel obligated by their foaming children-
frothing with indifference towards their Papas.
An impersonal handout to a distanced cousin,
I’m too lazy to actually say it
but I’m willing to toss coins
at the feet of uniformed WalMart workers-
And I cry for the trees that wind up here.
to a lifetime on the iron mantles of Puerto Rican hoarders
next to portraits of dead relatives
staring at the snow that just doesn’t compare to the sauna outside-
the palmy trees and coconut sand.
Crack open the skin of that card
and stare at the poisonous words of impersonality,
a skeleton void of organs.