prickly pear

by Steven J. Serafiani

I milled around the supermarket again,
empty basket,
have been doing this alot lately,
maybe it’s the elevator music,
maybe it’s the pitter patter of sluggish heels and bostonians,
maybe is a vague word I guess,
where was I?
yes, milling around,
scanned the organic aisle,
they have a small section segregated from the rest,
the usda certified organic labels leering at me,
why do they have such a small section?
stood there for a good five minutes,
then headed over to the produce section,
my favorite besides the spirits,
the freshness,
the crisp raised racks,
layers upon layers of an earth drawn palette,
‘singing in the rain’ came on,
water sprayed the leaves,
I stood there like a big dumb idiot,
Gene Kelly crossed through a lobe,
thought about what he ate on the fifth day of production during the filming,
stood in front of the small rows of prickly pears,
grabbed one and rolled it around in my hands,
groped it,
elevator music dimmed,
Gene Kelly dimmed,
fucking past eight hours dimmed,
I stared into that fucking pear’s soul,
imaginary soul,
wasn’t high,
wasn’t drunk,
gazed into it like a pin-up,
I felt this strange peace cascade from head to toe,
to me, at that moment,
this over ripe prickly pear,
was the meaning of life.