walmart on a sunday afternoon

there are not nearly enough amazon gift-cards

or paper tickets for reduced-price canned beans

to appease us sinners of modern-day suburbia.

clad in their vestments of electric blue

losing sanity under the blinding lights from above

our poor patrons search the aisles for escape.

as we push ourselves across the abyss

we are distracted by the sticky ground that hinders us

from moving our wheels forward.

nearing the end we try to push onward

but we cannot see past the ocean before us

of lost souls surrounding the bargain bins

no thinking.

heavy breathing.

pure, unbridled, chaos.

i just want to find the milk.