Tourists

Contributor: Michael Prihoda

- -
the grocery
store
was
crowded
that day
I forgot
my list.

I wanted
it all.

and yet
I wanted
out, out
from these
cloying
bodies,
exuding
fascination.

what of
these
harried
hurried
harrowed
expressions?

lines like
furrows
below
the eyes.

haunted.

this day a
homunculus.

carts
pushed their
lives, always
something
needing
filling, often
teeth
and our
responsibility.

eyes darting
like birds,
scanning products
and price tags
for deals
and sales,
unconsciously
adding
against
their budget
of imaginary
numbers,
hired
accountants
for
diffusion purposes.

no tax on tea
no tax on coffee
no tax on me,
they think,
shuddering
motion employed
on Lewis and Clark
expeditions
around the aisles.

a few expressionless
mothers
divide thoughts
between remodeling
the living room
to resemble the
fresh fruit
section
and considering
what their
child will next
desire, said
in screams
wild gestures.

never enough life.

the smell of
certain aisles
sticks in our
clothes, perfumery
perchance, roots
and offshoots
sending runners
below linoleum,
exhaustion in the
bagger’s eyes
watching the
cashier
swipe another
gift card, 21st
century checkout
charity.

all that redness
in the meat sections,
tanked lobsters
and murder weapon
cheese blocks,
everything criminal
in this busyness,
dead flowers
dented cereal boxes
spilled rotini pasta.

everyone tourists
leaving with souvenirs,
the empty list
of my hands
reminding
me I am purposeless
amongst all
this weaving
purpose.

fond glances
at the bashful
alcohol, fragile
in glass,

more
reasons to
forget,

more
reasons to
return.


- - -
Michael Prihoda is a poet and university student. He loves nature, photography, cooking, and running. The smallest details of life seem to mean the most.