The lights hummed Too bright Too loud

The lights hummed. Too bright. Too loud.

A child screaming somewhere distant and near.

Too many people pressing in here.

I was swallowed by the crowd.

I reached for the cereal. My hand went out.

The world tilted—no, fell sideways into itself.

The aisle became the floor. The shelf

became nothing. I was lost, no doubt.

A woman's face above me. Concerned. Blurred.

My back against the cold tile floor.

The cart with the squeaking wheel rolled by once more.

Squeaking. Squeaking. Every sound I'd heard.

I said nothing. They asked if I needed help.

I lied. Got up too fast. Tried

to steady myself, then I fled,

grabbed the cereal, and left the yelp

of the child screaming still in my ears.

Haven't been back. Haven't had the nerve.

The fluorescent lights still serve

up this spinning in my chest. The fears

stay with me. The humming. The squeaking wheel.

I don't leave the house much anymore.

I don't open the store.

I don't know how to feel.