Aisle Seven

The hum of the lights,

a constant, high-pitched whine

above the pasta sauces,

identical rows, jars of shine.

My eyes trace the labels,

Marinara, Arrabiata,

each promising a different hunger.

The floor feels too bright, too waxed.

A slight lurch then,

like a boat on a calm sea,

but I'm standing still.

The tall stacks of cans waver.

Just too much choice.

Too many colors, too many names.

A tiny fear,

that the whole damn store

might just tilt, slowly,

and all of it,

all this ordered plenty,

will slide down onto me.