Forty-seven items for a man who lives alone,
the shopping cart’s a casket and I’m filling it with bone
and gristle, brisket, chicken thighs in family packs of ten,
the optimism of the purchase says I’m hosting but I’m not, again
it’s any given weeknight and everything I’m buying is for me,
the shopping cart confession of a man who can’t foresee
the moment when enough becomes the word he understands,
the shopping cart is overflowing past the handlebar demands.
The cart pulls left because the weight’s uneven, just like me,
the shopping cart confession, the grocery store spree,
I’m loading up on everything the appetite requires,
the shopping cart confession of a man whose mouth conspires
against his wallet and his waistline and his plan,
the shopping cart confession of a deeply hungry man.
The frozen section gets the longest visit, aisle by aisle,
the ice cream in the seven flavors, every single trial
size rejected for the full gallon, the committed choice,
the shopping cart is heavy and the wheels have lost their voice,
they’re grinding on the tile floor and people look and stare,
the pyramid of snack food rising past the point of care,
I’ve stacked the chips like cordwood and the dip in triple rows,
the shopping cart confession and the only God who knows
exactly what I’m doing with this haul when I get back
is me, the empty kitchen, and the systematic attack
on every bag and box and tub I’ve purchased for the night,
the shopping cart confession underneath fluorescent light.