grocery carts
would not make good longboats:
too many holes.
a disabled freezer chest
in aisle 5 provides
a cold sea to wade through,
and i do, with large, heavy steps.
tonight, i would be satisfied
with another man’s woman
thrown over my bulky shoulder.
her name would be helga
to my sven.
barring a lack of women to abduct,
even a large fish to char would be nice.
instead, i am left with a tin can
of tuna—dolphin-friendly at that.
i throw the can
into the cart with more muscle
than needed.
an elderly lady hovering
beside the green beans
clutches
her pink sequined purse
tightly to her sagging chest.
overripe tomatoes
fall from her gnarled root hands,
explode, then bleed
onto the cool green linoleum.
i smell blood,
and like it.