The Lean

The Sugar Loops are bright enough

to make my molars ache.

The ceiling lights are a low-voltage

shriek I can feel in my gums.

Suddenly, the floor isn't floor.

It’s the wet deck of a boat

in a storm I didn't see coming.

I grip the handle of the cart,

my knuckles turning the color of milk.

I'm waiting for the boxes of oats

to slide off the shelf and drown me.