Don't expect a lot if you spelunk the stores on Spalding Street.
You've seen all that they sell before, as every one's an outpost
Of a soulless, giant chain. Nothing is local anymore. Nothing
Exhibits fetching quirks. The sad, robotic customers who
Make their ways from door to door are trained to want what
Others want, whatever shimmers on their screens. Their
Clothes and homes all are alike, their haircuts and their
Politics. They return to the sunlight, blinking, hands weighed 
Down with shopping bags. Though you may choose to follow
Them, yours are not apt to be.