9:59am
COSTCO POEM

diamonds and we push carts onward. a samsung television. bits of tuna fish inside water inside 24 cans inside shrink wrap. no whitman. no ginsberg. this is not california. this is costco. adult gummy vitamins. bewildered-looking couple in sweatpants pushes a shopping cart very slowly through the toilet paper aisle. lawn furniture scenarios. chocolate frozen yogurt in styrofoam. it always upsets the stomach. with luck, a generous costco employee gives free samples of the vegetable samosa we will never buy. 18 grapefruit. 10 avocados. 12 missing person flyers beside the bathroom. we push carts onward. new socks to replace old socks or to become lost socks. we push carts onward. 50 pink disposable razors. 1 pound of ground cinnamon. an old man listlessly highlights receipts. tires. we push carts onward.

2:25pm
LIST

a lonely hunter hut in norway and a sunlit apartment in pittsburgh, patterns, river fires, sparklers, bad skin/bad body, webmd, grey eye circles and mega bruises, biking up 44th street, sun gives the color orange, the color turquoise, and sweat, so very few bras, always tired, banishing that waiting room feeling, this is not the waiting room, this is the actual room, and we are getting it all on tape, a drive in movie, a filing down of metal, a new hat of faces, then help help, then pulling the exposed woman with cancer onto her feet in the flea market bathroom, please don’t whimper or apologize or even thank me because we are all in this same room together.