Grocery Zen

on soles already tired
I enter the sliding doors
plopping my purse in a cart
slab of spring pink against worn metal

with wheels squealing I turn
always produce first
examining each blemish when still fresh

then the bank of aisles
like a mountain switchback, I traverse
eyes glazed against the barrage

bred in familiarity my feet stop
hand grasps without fully focusing
and adds to the pile

the monotony soothing
a modern day meditation