by Philip Kitcher

Today the store is empty-ish, and everyone is masked.
We push our carts politely, and we step aside when asked.
Although the shelves are sparsely stocked, they now have flour at least
But no yeast.

The fish is plainly past its best, the dairy case is bare,
The produce is depleted—will we have to live on air?
Two boxes of spaghetti need to last three nights … or four …
Maybe more … ?

I’m starting to grow desperate, I’m almost out of time.
Perhaps I’ll make a pasta sauce from okra and a lime?
No garlic, no tomatoes—I find just one can of beans
And no greens.

Supplies are looking meager as I reach the liquor aisle
And there behold a vision sure to make a shopper smile.
I grab a case of red and then I join the checkout line.
We’ll be fine.