In Which You Consider Going to the Grocery Store
Noon has fallen into recline
Like a lazy metropolis
Upon boughs and crumbling moss-coated roofs.
Its yawn simmers in your chest.
Oh how will you cook that eggplant parmesan
When you are moss-coated
And leaning like a slanted roof?
When your irises have grayed out like skies?
You won’t be able to see the redness
In the tomatoes of the vegetable aisle
Or the bright blue of your debit card
Its dull guillotine sheen
Your neck over the register.
The bus’s head beams cut through your fog
Like a lighthouse on a fluorescent shore.
You will yawn and spin the wheel seaward,
A slow gradient into night.