by Gene Morgan

"Mountain Dew has fucked us," I say, while drinking one,
to the cashier at The Great American Cookie Company.
She's beautiful, like a thick Diane Sawyer. She smiles.
I sit on a bench in the food court.
I eat a six piece nugget and call my wife.
"What are the implications of ultimate responsibility?" I say.
The greeter at the Gap looks blankly at my hands.
I fall in love with a large black man at the Nordstrom.
I say the word "Ferrari" to him, like I mean it.
To him, my skin color is almost translucent.

Just outside the mall, the Gap greeter cries and smokes.
I pretend I'm his manager for a moment, internally,
and the power lifts and swirls around me like manga.
"I have the ability to control a man's destiny,"
I scream to him across a field of cars, hands clutched,
cars slowly lifting into the clouds above the Cheesecake Factory.
Later, my innumerable powers ultimately fail. We share a cookie
superbly crafted by the beautiful Diane Sawyer
and laugh at how ridiculous white women are.