Life, Actually.
Dreamer Meets Nightmare, Winter 2022
Every morning I wake,
a different COVID symptom,
today, sore throat; yesterday,
cough. But with nary a rapid test
and larder low,
I calculate risk to the grocery store.
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The parking lot is not as empty as I like
and must I wrangle a shopping cart from the not-okay corral. I wield my battered tumbril
down ravaged aisles, past the yawn of refrigerator cases
stripped of any chicken part whatsoever,
though this week there are yellow bananas.
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Under the florescent light, paranoia pulses,
sings shambling consumers electric.
Stock clerks are pissed at Bill who won’t fucking answer his phone.
There’s a dude behind me, mask under his nose (asshole!)
jabbering away (earbuds?) frozen pizza and Listerine in his cart.
“I’m going to literally kill you,” he says,
and I don’t turn to look.
I mean, it’s that kind of day.
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Of course I have my own reusable bags. I am, after all, a responsible steward of the grocery shopping planet. Somewhere during the bagging process my surgical mask shifts up, blocks my vision. I can’t help it; I start to cry a little.
Outside, ten degrees.
I am so tired of grim everything that goes into living in this place, but please, god, don’t let me die here.
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Back home I look at houses on Realtor.com. Do you understand now?
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It’s still early. The day is before me.
But I think life being what it is,
I would rather just imagine
home someplace else, and spring.