An Ode to a Super-Market

Thousands of happy colors mingle:
reds, purples, pinks and many more
there are fresh sandwiches, gourmet cheeses,
all sorts of magazines and cards
oranges, star-fruits, figs and dates
european cocoa
south american cigars, hard apple cider, and champagne cakes
dark coffees from the peaks of lands afar
vitamins, minerals, and drugs

I ask a Native American clerk where the latter are
and she walks me part-way,
I thank her profusely
intoxicated by her exotic, friendly smile,
I pick up my opioids
and stop by the in-store cafe
for an iced mocha:
soon I leave and am on my way
to my home in Suburbia

I'm not naive and know these luxuries
are the plunder of our american Rome,
I've lived across the over-fished ocean in Thailand
and seen it first-hand;
ya know I try to do something about it
but I'm far from perfect:

I really like the super-market