Shop in the twenty-first century

for apricots,
peanuts,
jelly,
and bread.

The supermarket doors slide open
and let me in.

They are sticky lips.

Dilated vagina walls,
electronic to the eye.

Each aisle resonates with
the rhythm
of corporate success.

The cereal boxes,
jumping out from their shelves,
spill their contents
in my path
and I
walk right over them.

Each step
filled with the sound of
snap-crackle-pop.

Our shopping carts have
faulty wheels
that are fevered with malfunction,
and it only takes a few feet
before I've abandoned the cart
and go off
looking to steal somebody else's.

Sometimes I feel strange as
I pass the meat section.

Sensitive.

Weak.

But I swallow and
take it like a man.

In the produce department
I find old friends and
distant relatives,
leafing through the lettuce and
carefully picking out
ripe bananas.

I get lost by the canned goods
and I panic,
knocking over displays
as I frantically try to
find my way over to the Deli.

I turn left at aisle 10,
Pet Food.

Go through aisle 9
and no,
it's not the way.

I'm at aisle 12 now
and still
lost, lost, lost.

Finally there it is,
in all its glory.
Its big sign hanging
high up on the wall,
clamoring to me
in big red plastic letters.

I grab a big soft yellow
Poundcake
and smile because I know
I didn't forget the
strawberries and milk.