The City is Coughing

Erik Homsapaya

At the grocer,

The tomato, potato, and noodle soups are cleared -- Diminished;

Prejudicially cleansed from the shelves,

Whether donned in white paper cartons, pristine and refrigerated,

Or the dust-capped generic-brands, bottom shelf,

Ones your knees sweep dust to read.

Pastries aren't prescriptive meds, but must be therapeutic:

Cakes, doughnuts, and cookies have all disappeared for today.

Confectionery Comfort.

It's no wonder people walk and stand around like zombies:

Pale, cloaked, shut-off, staring at the floor:

They all feel like shit. Not winter depression, but

Winter vomiting and influenza viruses.

Heads leaning on glass and plastic walls of a nauseating ride,

"I want to be home already" is the track on repeat

In every rider on the cabin.

Rapidly pushing this button won't make the door open faster,

But I keep hoping it does--

Wait, that one gross guy -- smearing his drippy nose with his bare hand --

He just exited this door, at the stop before,

Didn't he?