Rows upon rows,
isle after isle,
the trip to the supermarket
has never seemed like
such a journey.
A long, unending quest
for survival: food.
I just want to get home.
No, Mr. Cashier,
please don’t start that awkward
small talk while you charge me
for the mass amounts of food
I’m currently purchasing.
I just want to get home.
No, I don’t want help
with my cart,
I think I can handle
this bag of double stuff
oreos and a pizza.
No, you can’t look at me
like that;
it’s a Friday night,
you seriously shouldn’t raise
your eyebrow at me
like that.
Honestly.
No, I don’t need help,
but thanks,
that was sweet.
I’m in sweatpants
and a messy bun,
just let me be.
Chaotic when I wish it wasn’t,
all I want is a Friday night
with my best friend
who’s too lazy to stop watching
Scandal to come to
the supermarket with me.
No, I don’t care if it’s six o’clock
in the evening at a supermarket
in California,
I really don’t.
