You are in a rush to write this
You know that if you can put it down
To transcribe your testimony
That it might have meant something
That you can mean something by it
The cold rain starts slow
A couple pecks on your nose - is something leaking?
Before the polluted droplets begin to slide down your glasses
The uncomfortable, unnatural chill envelops you in an unwanted hug
One from which you long to recoil
But you cannot bring yourself to shiver
The store is full of life
Full of people so different, and so much the same
So brilliant and so sacred, and yet
Irrevocably distant and unimaginably separate
The encasing insulation
The cool and painful lubrication
The congealed grease on the cogs
The earlier drinks, the rain, the grease
Seep into your spine
And gnaw at your brainstem
You feel vaguely sick, vaguely cold, and just fucking unwell
But not enough to really complain
It's the cost of mending things
Of mutually acknowledging to not acknowledge
Of moving on for the sake of, well,
To move on
As you carry the groceries home you think of the bag
Brown paper, manufactured in some faraway place
Assembled piece by piece, a product of many hands
For the sole duty of carrying your knock-off pseudo-healthy "indie" soda
The block and a half it needs to go
You carry it by the bottom
And the odd thought sticks with you
"Am I denying this bag its purpose?"
To be carried by the handles, to bear the weight
What a dissapointment it must feel
And you can relate
Up the stairs you heave it into your palms
To meet its meaning
All those many hours of human effort and thought
And undeniable denied suffering
Brought forth to bear
Your groceries fall, strewn about your apartment
Around your bewildered cat
But all you can think of
All you can do
Is scramble to write it down