Under the Heat Domes

Near the supermarket (and what

an American word that is), crows
peck at a crumpled bag from

a fast-food place; a woman begs
(her sign says "ANYTHING HELPS/
GOD BLESS"); and a two-acre

parking lot fills with cars
that face each other in lines
like 18th century troops.

The windshields glare.
The black tires roast.
Car alarms start to twitch.

I'm just another ghost
in training, pushing an empty
cage on wheels, headed

toward a section called Produce,
an Impressionist's or Cubist's
heaven of colors & shapes invented

by soil, trees, bushes, stalks,
and vines. Much of the Northern
Hemisphere today is on fire

and under heat domes. The
supermarket's air-cooling
machines crank out false breeze

in the false peace of retail space.