Adam In Walmart

I find myself foraging, basket in hand among the cocoa harvests of distant lands. You ask patiently: what do you need? As you speak a shaft of light crashes like a Chinese paratrooper through the store’s skylight. The ray pieces high-stacked shelves, beams upon a huddle of overweight shoppers, flashes briefly, illuminating brimful spandex, The light dances over that look you have, and I suddenly understand that while our bodies don’t so often pound love into speaking flames – nevertheless, I still want only you, not cut-price plastic hole fillers, nor anything blue, green or yellow seen on a T.V. in aisle 3, not even toffee. Here in this warehouse of hope we have again blundered into our reality the way Adam and Eve must have in that other overstocked Eden, and how like Adam ever since, I sometimes blow you off to pursue a pack of beer on sale in aisle twenty-two.