I walk across the Walmart parking lot.
High overhead, like vultures atop the lighting fixtures,
surveillance cameras are surveilling me.

I don’t look at them. I pretend not to notice.
Noticing them might make someone—the surveiller—
suspicious. So I just try to just look normal.
I swing my Walmart shopping bag,
which contains triple-A batteries,
a package of Hanes “Comfort Fit” jockey briefs,
and a printer cartridge, in a nonchalant,
“Hey, I bought this, I paid for it, I have nothing to hide”
kind of way that I hope the surveiller appreciates.
I’m making his job easier. Or hers. No way of telling.

I do suck in my tummy. OK, I could lose a few pounds.
More than a few. If something happens—if I get mugged—
I want to look good: slim and surprisingly agile
for a guy my age when the tape is posted
on YouTube and gets thirty-five-thousand hits
in the first week! Which is not unreasonable;

I’ve seen YouTube surveillance tapes
of relatively uninteresting assaults in parking lots, 
assaults where no one gets seriously injured, 
that got over ten million views! Whereas
I post thoughtful comments on Facebook
about climate change and school tax levies
and I’m lucky to get five Likes.

It would be interesting to meet the surveiller,
especially if she’s tall, early forties,
a part-time Pilates instructor
and compulsive voyeur, which is why the Walmart job
is great for her, although the benefits are lousy.
We could have dinner. She would see that I’m more—
much more—than just some definitely not fat
and surprisingly agile older guy. She could surveil me
in person, which would be a nice change. A start.

Because sometimes I feel like there’s a loneliness,
a new kind of loneliness in the world, that—
but here’s my car.

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