Yikes @ You

It must be the supermarket in me, all lit from inside, full of wide aisles and thoughtful shelf-stocking where you’ll find my feelings and memories. That’s why on the outside I look so ordered and put together. My inner supermarket contains an old-world butcher shop and fish market. Shoppers arrive with an unfathomable hunger which I relieve by offering freshness, quality, and value. Some are penniless and can only fantasize, licking their lips at rows of artisanal cheeses and meats behind glass display cases, the clothbound bries and goat, at ropes of cured salami and prosciutto. Still they taste. I offer free samples at stations throughout my supermarket so people will come to know and like me. In the produce department, many test my pears and avocados for ripeness. In the floral area, they sniff. Some walk off with my bouquets. I contain cheerful baggers who will escort you to your car. At times, truthfully, I dislike this about myself, forever accommodating. I’ve not always had a supermarket in me. It began when the church in me lost its congregation and when I lost my mother’s love to cocktails and other stimulants. There is no place for anger in my supermarket. I keep it in the backroom with a sign that reads “No Trespassing: Employees Only.” It’s a way of being in the world, a self, full of checkout lines and refrigerators, until someone runs through me, knocking down my pyramids of canned goods or panic shopping, leaving empty aisles.