Window Shopping

I go window shopping every day
an array of goods
tantalizingly displayed
catch my eyes-
this I covet, that yearn for
but in a trice turn away:
"Not for me", I tell my self
"They are but baubles",
a wounded vanity sneers
while heart cries
bitter tears in dismay.
My treasure chest,
hidden in a chamber,
I ignore; dragging it out
to take a peek is such a bore
one day I'll take the trouble,
not today; and my window shopping
eats up time as engrossed I stand,
like the lilt of a tune it runs in mind
a scratched CD stuck in a groove
neither forward, nor rewind.