A Poem

A Trip to Walmart

I keep the habit of living in my pajamas, walking

down the aisles of Walmart, my face unshaven

and old, beaten, weathered, my breath molded 

with my words. I come here often seeking frozen fish, 

pizza, bacon, ground beef, instant coffee, chocolate, 

condoms. I no longer expect to find myself 

in the convenience that holds me to my word. Work 

is distance I cannot cross. What mystery singles me out 

for ill health, for rotten molars, for an aching back? I breathe 

through barriers of ice. I don’t have tragedies; I have 

annoyances, none of which involves a woman. Before 

I became disabled, before the shuffle from my couch 

to the store complicated my life, I repaired cars. 

I had my own garage. My expertise beckoned the county. 

Now I wonder what holds the world together, what shoestring 

I have to untie to watch shopping malls collapse. Time 

is my only expense. I grow fat on my watch. No one cares.

No one bridges the space between herself and me with fingernails

that could cut teeth. I get by on my own. Seeing is something

I cannot control.

Joel Fry

*Currently published in Eclectica.