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Passing Over in the Checkout Line
by Timothy SomersI hover, then crouch among the canned peas,
knowing full well the cover I seek
wont keep the age-bullets away.
Just hope no one sees the incident.
Its this way every time.
Without rhyme nor reason I palpitate,
vibrate, and associate Mary the checkout girl
with hair curling 911 response teams,
I mean it means aggada, heartburn, beklempt
heartfelt anxiety attacks each time I
go back.
Super-whatever Mart.
Shaky wheeled cart replaced the handbasket
straight to hell, headed down,
Mart-Kart® to
I know Ill die there.
Oh, the shame.
Oh yes, and the Oedipal-Ginsberg thing troubles me too,
fucked by a dead queer poet,
expecting his double to appear
with vegetables and Whitman
feeds my trauma.
Chrome handrails enhance the drama,
reflecting tubelight tragedy
unfolding as I clutch at life
as life fails,
and I lie dying
crying momma
all the while clutching at my breast,
I see it all right now.
Young child cries accompaniment.
My Safeway swan song along
with double coupons,
croutons, and acne splat faces
staring down my isle
all the while I die
in shoppers paradise.
11/29/2000 Posted on 02/21/2005
Copyright © 2025 Timothy Somers
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Rusty C Arquette on 02/26/05 at 04:48 PM LOL!...Where ever it is we finally drop, super-store or otherwise, we can be assured it won't be graceful or to our liking...I only pray it's not while sitting on the 'porcelain princess' taking a final parting poo! (chuckle) - I can relate..well done! - RCat |
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