A Supermarket in California
I miss my Bard. I miss everyone there. I read Ginsburg this afternoon and was struck by nostalgia.
Do you remember the night we went in search of everything and anything cranberry and lost ourselves between Red Hook and Hannaford, delerious, and by the time we arrived the cashiers had closed for that one hour, so we waited in the cake aisle, you curled into the floor, wanting your cranberries more than I think you'd probably ever wanted anything (if only for that one moment)? And then less than a month later we were taking the same pilgrimage for me. Slightly better timed and slightly more successful...but we wandered looking for cranberry things through ice cream and chocolate.
And then later tea and sugar and curled (I was always curling somewhere that year) onto a chair in Kline, project spread across a table, me pretending I was actually getting something done and that the something was worthwhile.
I need poetry back.
What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for
I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache
self-conscious looking at the full moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went
into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families
shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the
avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, what
were you doing down by the watermelons?
I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber,
poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery
boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the
pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans
following you, and followed in my imagination by the store
detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in our
solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen
delicacy, and never passing the cashier.
Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in
an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight?
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the
supermarket and feel absurd.)
Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The
trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be
lonely.
Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love
past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?
Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher,
what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and
you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat
disappear on the black waters of Lethe?
Do you remember the night we went in search of everything and anything cranberry and lost ourselves between Red Hook and Hannaford, delerious, and by the time we arrived the cashiers had closed for that one hour, so we waited in the cake aisle, you curled into the floor, wanting your cranberries more than I think you'd probably ever wanted anything (if only for that one moment)? And then less than a month later we were taking the same pilgrimage for me. Slightly better timed and slightly more successful...but we wandered looking for cranberry things through ice cream and chocolate.
And then later tea and sugar and curled (I was always curling somewhere that year) onto a chair in Kline, project spread across a table, me pretending I was actually getting something done and that the something was worthwhile.
I need poetry back.
What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for
I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache
self-conscious looking at the full moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went
into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families
shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the
avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, what
were you doing down by the watermelons?
I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber,
poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery
boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the
pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans
following you, and followed in my imagination by the store
detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in our
solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen
delicacy, and never passing the cashier.
Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in
an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight?
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the
supermarket and feel absurd.)
Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The
trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be
lonely.
Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love
past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?
Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher,
what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and
you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat
disappear on the black waters of Lethe?