dystopia in the
canned food aisle
i keep thinking maybe she’ll move her cart
so i can squeeze by and get those
cans of cat food that i need
but there’s too much for her to do on her phone
status updates and games of chance
when she looks up
she gives me one of those asshole smirks
scoots the cart aside an inch
just to let me know how much i can go and fuck myself
so i think the hell with it
and back up toward the next aisle
which is a sea of rusted carts and angry faces
flabby bodies junked up on antibiotic meats and chemical
tomatoes
scratching off items from their lists
and playing on their cell phones too
the stock boys are flinging boxes against displays
cackling mad as cans roll all over the ground
they look as if they’ll never escape this degradation
this dystopia in the canned food aisle
where there is a sweating kid in a carriage screaming
but it’s mine! but
it’s mine!
wailing, holding her hands toward a can of chicken noodle
soup
whose sodium content seems to baffle everyone
as her mother says out loud
hey, i don’t even think there’s chicken in this
right before a display of baked chips
comes raining down on my head
hit from behind by a woman pushing a cart the size of a tank
slowly rumbling its way down red square.
or the streets of suburban america.
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