Psychosis in the Produce Department


It is all
too much
rub red
against the flesh.
There is danger
in their eyes
as the carts
chart collision courses.
Killers are everywhere,
mushrooms disguise as evolution


I keep the juices intact,
encased in animal skin.
We pick out food
for ripeness and color.
The cucumbers smirk
and beckon.
My veins pop
like grapes between fingers.
I wheel metal
through bins.


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