SuperMarket: A Funny Poem About A Grocery Store
SuperMarket
Our grocer is out of order
There is no bakery
The produce is picked over
Separate yet closer
An isle for malt liquor
Instead of fresh bread
A bus stop on the corner
For the weary traveler
No self check out
No free samples
Just heads of lettuce
And cold shoulders
Parking lot disaster
Potholes in the road
Beneath the wheels
Of the tax collector
The world is a flat soda
Full of one man’s treasure
Women with expensive weave
Work at the register
Two sides to a coin
The greens are greener
On the other side of town
For a few miles more
Past the walk in bank
Past the lobster tank
Shopping carts shaped
Like racecars swerve
Swiftly by the pharmacy
The elderly slide arms
Through digital blood
Pressure cuffs
The lap of luxury
A foreign delicacy
For the rest of us
PWIV