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