Store Dread

I only need blueberries,

maybe eggs,

and something green 

to make me feel like a citizen.

But my palms hear “grocery store”

and immediately file a complaint.

My bowels,

dramatic little union workers,

call an emergency meeting.

Apparently we are not

“running errands.”

We are entering

a fluorescent battlefield

with carts that wobble and shriek,

children that shriek and wobble,

and one man blocking the tomatoes

like he’s never seen one.

I haven’t even found my shoes yet

and my body is already

writing its will.

“Tell the birds I’ll miss them,”

says my stomach.

“Wear some underwear,”

says my colon.

Meanwhile my brain is trying to be reasonable.

It’s just a store.

You’ve been to stores.

You know how stores work.

Yes, says my nervous system,

but have you considered

the parking lot?

Have you considered

the person who stands

in the exact middle of the aisle

reading ranch dressing labels

like they contain prophecy?

Have you considered

the cashier asking,

“Find everything okay?”

when the answer is obviously,

“No, Brenda,

I lost my will to live

somewhere near the cauliflower.”

Still, I go.

Brave as hell.

List in hand.

Credit card tucked away.

Face arranged

into something that says

stable adult woman

and not

raccoon entering Aldi

during a solar flare.

I buy the bananas.

I buy the eggs.

I buy the green thing.

I forget the one item

I actually came for.

Naturally.

But I make it home,

which counts.

The palms calm down.

The bowels cancel the strike.

The nervous system removes

its helmet.

And there I stand

in my kitchen,

victorious,

holding parsley

when I needed cilantro

thinking:

close enough,

you little goddess of survival,

close enough.