In September, I walked into a supermarket
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
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?)
It’s all Alcohol.
And I bought 5 bottles.