People in the mall miss the sun.
We don big sunglasses in remembrance of the ball of furry than once simmered the sky above our heads.
Before we built it over with drywall.
Installed odd colored lighting and surround sound intercom dementia.
Dug tunnels underground to parade our silicone parts and wares.
Built digital displays of dysfunctional divas.
On Thursdays we gather round the grand food court to stare up through the glass at the sun.
We wait with tacos and pizza in hand.
We talk loudly into our cell phones.
Asking the sun where it has gone.
Why it has not called us back.
An emo boy checks his LED belt buckle for the weather forecast.
Wipes a greasy hand through tri colored hair and sighs.
A single string of cheese stretches from his hand down to hovering just above the floor.
It wavers back and forth in a dull stale breeze.
People in the mall miss the sun on our thirty minute lunch break.
Some stopped bothering to look a long time ago.
Others still hope, but give into their hunger and look down to eat instead.
Today it has snowed and the glass is smeared over with grey slushy disappointment.
Neman Marcus puts seasonal affective disorder on sale.
Free with the purchase of a single red shoe.
Women crumple their face into a glitzy handbag and trudge into the snow.
One foot in glossy red fashion.
One foot in the grey.
Sexy asses swaying in the icy past.
A mere moment ago.
People in the mall miss the sun as they head home at night.
But the sun has better places to go shopping than you.