At the Supermarket
At the supermarket,
The produce is stacked to the ceiling
And the fresh fruit
Is at the bottom.
You may feel pings
Of in di gestion
After eating
The ones
The The
theXXXXX1XXXXX1s
at
the
top
of the heap.
At the supermarket,
Boxes are placed neatly in rows,
Perhaps even single file,
Marching in procession
Into consuming hands.
I'm sure they'll be ripped
O
pen
And ravished into cardboard ashes
When mom brings them home
To the kids.
At the supermarket,
Fish are packed tightly in tin cans,
Swimming nowhere in a packaged sea,
Salted for extra flavor…
Or was it to keep them from disintegrating?
Some cow's leg
Is slopped into a plastic wrap,
Blood still oozing out from the muscle.
A pig is split in half, Gutted and beheaded—
Put on a rotisserie
To spin around on the
Artificial fire.
Several chickens are neighborly
To the slab of pig carcass;
They also spin around and around
On the trochllic stick.
It's almost like
An amusement park ride
For dead animals.
Except it's not.
It's not. It's not. It's not.
At the supermarket,
The aisles caress my blind spots.
Above me:
Phosphorescent light.
Below me:
Linoleum tiles.
Straight ahead, it appears as if the tunnel of my vision narrows,
restricting me a single speck of light for my focal point. Behind
me, things are much more obtuse, widening as I pass.
My cart wobbles as I push it.
Rickety squeaks emit from the
Dilapidated wheels.
It sounds like shaking cutlery
As my steps progress
Into another hallway
Of white nowhere.
At the supermarket,
They toss my belongings
In a disposable plastic bag
Or a paper one
That says recycled
Somewhere on it,
But I know better.
I'll throw it out
Anyway. Who cares? ?
Not me.
Not me.
Not me.
Not me.
Not me.
poem by Tim Stensloff
Added by Poetry Lover
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