Near the supermarket (and what
an American word that is), crowspeck 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.
