Wal-Mart, 3 a.m.


Can't sleep again;
Too much coffee,
and too much on my mind.
I drive to Wal-Mart,
Keeping the radio on.
I really don't need anything,
But I walk through the aisles,
Acting as if I'm looking
For something.
There's no need to, really,
The store is full of insomniacs;
Nobody is really desperate for
Fig newtons, or Bounty,
Or slippers --
Surely, not at 3 am.

Leaning on my shopping cart,
I drag myself through the store,
Spotting the usual suspects:
The retards that ride the city buses;
The downtown cowboy;
The prostitute from Chenango Street,
Off duty, I guess.
And then I see him, James Plato
(no relation;) my neighbor from
my old place on Cedar.

And I remember his story:
Nearsighted from birth,
He once bought starter fluid
Instead of cooking spray,
And nobody caught it.
That night, he made a special
Supper for his wife:
Fried potatoes, fried eggs,
Fried strips of bacon.
It was all simple, but that's
The way he was, he put his
Soul into that pan.
Now, she is in constant need
Of a tune-up;
That meal fucked her up,
And the doctors can't figure it out.

He never forgave himself,
And when he is not taking her out
For walks, he is in the process of
Drinking himself to death.
I catch his eyes.
They don't sparkle,
But barely glow, like the dying flame
Of a candle, burning down.
He doesn't recognize me.
I want to say something, but I can't.
We part ways by the beer coolers.
Something inside of me
Wails silently
All the way home.