Aisle Six

The fluorescent tubes are humming a sharp, electric B-flat.

I am standing in front of the yellow mustard.

French’s, Plochman’s, store brand, spicy brown,

a wall of plastic squeeze-bottles vibrating like a fever.

The floor starts to tilt toward the frozen peas.

I put my hand on the freezer chest handle

to keep from sliding into the white-tiled abyss.

The metal is shaking my bones.

I don't need condiments.

I need to remember how to stand

without a wall to back me up.