Thrust Back into Levittown
Grocery stores, of course, are all alike with theirDisgusting lights, cold and blue, like those which
Let the coroner complete his work. The produce,
Shown so, isn't pretty. Meat is, well, it's carrion,
And packaged goods are stark and sterile. I am
Home, and almost nauseous, gliding glumly past
A cornucopia of shitty food: “cheese,” which
Cannot be distinguished from the plastic sheets
Onto which it was squirted days ago, bologna,
Wan and without merit, something made by
Someone with a clipboard, who had read
The surveys, “bland is best; it never fails,”
And beer that tastes like German urine,
“Feed them all with garbage” brought
By trucks from places far away. Feed them
Fruit which feels like granite. Feed them
Bags of flavored flour. Watch them turn
Into balloons, which rise, and lightly float
Away to come to rest against the needles
Saving them with insulin, and I, as I said,
Almost nauseous, also rise and drift beyond
These soulless sidewalks and the endless plots
Of land reserved for cars. I think back to
The cold blue light of one street-corner grocer
Steps away from where we laid our heads.
J, who's trying out her French, is looking for
Some cider, since she doesn't like the local
Wine. I am snatching bottles which seem
Cheaper than they ought to be, to have with
Baguettes, almost costless, and real meat,
And cheese which tastes of mold and caves,
As cheese should taste, and, all around,
The motor scooters flit, and, at the tables
And the bars, a dozen along any street,
Parisians meet. They drink and smoke,
And talk. The sun sets somewhere to the
West, out by the Eiffel Tower. J and I,
With little bags, climb up the stairs into
Our room. We eat. We drink, and I say,
“Here's to our two lovely lives,” and she
Says, “Never let them be besmirched
By grocery lights.”
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 59 times
Written on 2017-10-20 at 02:06
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