Aisle Four

The oatmeal boxes are vibrating on the shelf.

Forty different ways to say the same thing

until I can’t quite recognize myself

or the heavy, sickly pull the rafters bring.

The fluorescent tubes hum a flat B-flat

and the linoleum floor begins to tilt.

I don't know why I'm looking at all that

or why I feel this sudden surge of guilt.

I grip the metal handle of the cart,

the only thing that's holding up the world.

I need to leave before I fall apart

and the labels get too dizzy and uncurled.