In September, I walked into a supermarket

Fairly nondescript,

Looking for some kind of Back-to-School kit.

 

The banner hangs limp, languid,

A lame flag lolling on lengths of lemon tinted line,

Off-white canvas as though a decaying defeated surrender

Emblazoned with deep red letters

(reminiscent of the burst blood cells

that contribute to my mid-term migraines)

 

I look beneath the sad, flat hanging,

Searching the shelves with my eyes for some

Purchasing simulation,

Enhancement for my education,

Some sort of congratulation

for my pre-university prep.

 

Maybe I’ll buy some extortionate workbooks,

Or something to help students cook

Like a discount Gordon Ramsey.

(Swearing a lot)

Perhaps I’ll splurge on a ball point, or a fountain pen,

Something to help the Zen

of my workplace calligraphy.

Perchance I’ll bankrupt myself on some new folders

(Even though mine aren’t much older

But they don’t have the same cute puppies on.)

 

I get a shock

There’s a bit of a misstock

(or maybe there’s not?)

 

Alcohol.

It’s all Alcohol.

And I bought 5 bottles.