Stater Bros.

Stater Bros. gurpled busy as a chemical plant,
as she dragged along her cloud of perfume,
another outbreak amidst the bags and boxes
of factory food, seal of doom, unhappiness.
Mrs. Clarendon read the fat levels of chips
boiled in a new African oil, and wondered
briefly if she could eat her way to 19 again.
Eleanor paid no mind, pretending not to see
her neighbor because, well, talking is useless
as good advice, best intentions, vitamins.
The news of life removes the scent of fruit
right from the air—one might as well breathe
fractions—or deletes the steps from stairs
we climb climb climb unto the click of void.
She feared the lawlessness of produce,
the faint jungle greens and odder colors
that begged us back to graze. Cows!
No! Only packages talked of wealth
and our greatest schemes and cities
cinematic enough to make us dream
we, too, could be worshipped somehow
for our DNA, if we just met one person
who knew the person who ran things.