Sterile Foodstuffs

In a supermarket, every
twitch of the eye
is a jarring non sequitur.

Though I once believed I liked bright colors,
the gleam and smear
of commerce
dulled that instinct;
stretched and stamped it thin
like maroon library carpet,
or the seats of a luxury sedan
twenty years on the road;
a tired sigh of a car.
 
I would eat these shapes and hues,
and will, but some days I feel more
or less ready for more geometric shapes

my terrible red car agrees;
together, we have eaten more meals from
gas stations
than we care to admit.
Here: the course bitter center of it, truly:
I am lying
on some level
if I do not share:
I love the senseless peace
of parking on the open, desolate roof
of this grocery store.