The Grocery

The cart wheels squeal with catfight pitch
as Mom, hunch-backed, makes her way
down the endless aisles, her hands,
two blue hydras in the fluorescent glare,
coiled tightly around the red plastic rod.
A prisoner of the barred cart, I am
a wriggling sacrifice, legs dangling in air.

Bodiless purple and red heads
file silently by my death-barge,
while pounds of brown eyes follow
my trail through their expectant midst.
Firm white brains savor the thought
that mine will soon join the still-beating hearts
which drape over styrofoam palls.

A. Popp
1993

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