Grim white string hangs a wheel Rawdon; hangs it dead.
I push empty basket clanking drunk past pop-tarts and puffed-rice, by fruit loops and shredded wheat – weaving, nearly topple a stacked display of men all smiling eat my oats.
In aisle six a young fat woman in yellow stretch pants and white tee-shirt - obviously braless – smiles marshmallows at me.
In aisle seven a withered, man in black trousers and wrinkled black shirt glances nervously up from the contents of cat food and smiles toothless and bewildered.
My basket wobbles as I walk;
somewhere, a loaf of bread? – a peach? Here, only brooms, and plastic pails, – tidy bowl and Sani-flush. At the far end of the aisle a pretty, young nun holding **** & Span smiles hell at me.
In the produce section I am stopped
bagging peaches. A big man in a white suit smiles. “Young man, where is the meat? **** bread and fruit! I feel carnivorous: ready to eat something ******, to gnaw, break bone of lamb, or fowl, or slaughtered steer.”
I answer pointing, “Over there…
See the plump little girl poking
her plump fingers into ****-roasts?”
He eyes her deliciously and winks;
yells, “What’s for dinner, baby?!”
Outside, I squint and grin,
peach juice trickles down my chin,
the sun is hot, and sparrows pick
at break crumbs on the street.
I roll away in my basket on three wheels downhill laughing.
– 1980 Denver
Note: While at Denver University from 1978 to 1981, one of my favorite classes was a Creative Writing—Poetry class conducted by Rawdon Tomlinson, at the time, a little known, though published poet. This odd little piece was the result of an assignment to write a list-type poem about an actual experience in a public place