I burn
beautifully
in the fires of vanity.

Got lost
in my own reflection
on the frozen food doors—
there I was,
lined up with the rest
of the products on ice:

three fifty-nine
for four egg rolls,
six twenty-nine
for frozen bread dough,
six ninety-nine
for wild blueberries.

Superimposed,
my long mug
trying its best
to blend in.

My forehead says
I’m three ninety-nine,
but my solar plexus
clearly marks me
at five fifty-nine.

However,
my **** is, apparently,
on clearance,
reduced by thirty percent,
and
going for a buck nineteen.

At the end of the aisle,
an old lady eyes my biscuits,
rattling her coin purse
like she’s about to
roll a Yahtzee.

I flick my gaze
back to the glass
and my own ghostly image.

What did I
come here for
again?