Now we’re on lockdown, told we have to stop
activities that might expose us to the rising crop 
of virus. On penalty of death, we stay at home 
and mop or write or chat with buddies on the phone 
and laptop; we cultivate our gardens.  Mostly, 
I haven’t moped, have given up my daily rituals 
without much pain, but one pesky constant never
seems to wane: I just can’t shake the urge to shop 
for food or clothes, if possible, in person. I know
the origin of this pernicious itch. My parents
spent their lives in shopping malls. They
hoarded bargains in the guest room, in the 
basement, in the hall. I caught the bug. 
But all my promises to change have been 
a flop. I get up early, scan search engines 
for the “necessary” crap I’m craving, radar 
twitching like a rabbit’s nose at the thought 
of all the bucks I might be saving. I’d like to lop 
this habit from my life as though it were long 
toenails that could use a cropping, but it’s 
a major bummer to give up my shopping.