Aisle Four Blues

I get lonely in the grocery store

at the end of Aisle Four between Produce

and Meat. A longing filled emptiness

creeps off the shelves, shelves crowded

with Platonic Dreams of perfect meals

served to welcome mouths, promising bliss

and treasured joy that’s as hollow as cereal

boxes gutted with sugar puffed lumps of corn.

I trudge the cart of snarking food that winks

and smirks, knowing the lies they carry

of joyful meals spread with honor

and sanctity—the kind that Jesus ate

when he sat down with sinners and sluts,

making dinner a holy, not the common feeding

of livestock at the trough.

I get lonely, envisioning feasts never served,

at least on this side of paradise.