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Rated: E · Poetry · Satire · #2215954
From the perspective of a supermarket worker.
The people dash, they push and shove…carts filled,
and I, as Shaky Stocker, am not thrilled
about the jungle fever in the store.
I think of Oliver, when he said, More!

Though his was just some porridge in a bowl.
This current virus crisis takes its toll
on humble workers like myself who stock
the shelves, then watch when aisle-lock

occurs as people bang and crash their carts;
loaves of bread fall, and eggs break—this then starts
a battle for the last roll of T.P.
I dash away (I must take care, you see),

yet listen to the sounds of crash and ping;
a troglodyte mentality in spring
(almost), that crazy greed, a panic stew
a-boiling in self-survival brew.

I go to find my manager all right,
but he is not about to join the fight.
Meanwhile, another fight in aisle four
where Clorox Wipes were stocked, but not no more.

And buggies proceed faster towards the meat…
I’ve lost my will to work, I take a seat
and dream of hot-rod Chevys on the roads
while here, inside, humanity implodes.

24 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
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