It must be the supermarket in me,
all lit from inside, full of wide aisles
and thoughtful shelf-stocking
where you’ll find my feelings and
memories. That’s why on the outside
I look so ordered and put together.
My inner supermarket contains
an old-world butcher shop and fish market.
Shoppers arrive with an unfathomable
hunger which I relieve by
offering freshness, quality,
and value. Some are penniless
and can only fantasize, licking their lips
at rows of artisanal cheeses and meats
behind glass display cases, the clothbound
bries and goat, at ropes of cured
salami and prosciutto. Still
they taste. I offer free samples
at stations throughout
my supermarket so people will
come to know and like me.
In the produce department,
many test my pears and avocados
for ripeness. In the floral area, they sniff.
Some walk off with my bouquets.
I contain cheerful baggers
who will escort you to your car.
At times, truthfully, I dislike this
about myself, forever accommodating.
I’ve not always had a supermarket in me.
It began when the church in me
lost its congregation and when
I lost my mother’s love to cocktails
and other stimulants. There is no place
for anger in my supermarket. I keep
it in the backroom with a sign that reads
“No Trespassing: Employees Only.”
It’s a way of being in the world,
a self, full of checkout lines and refrigerators,
until someone runs through me,
knocking down my pyramids of canned
goods or panic shopping, leaving empty aisles.
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