The Damned

We are the damned.

We know who we are.
We shuffle among the aisles
One eye pretending to peruse shelves
The other on the time
Some of us a phone, some a watch
It doesn’t really matter.

All that matters is the tick-tick
In our heads. Until close.

We look at cans of soup
At store-made day-old sushi
Repellent even when fresh
— perhaps we even grab something,
A bag of Doritos, say
Those will be wanted later

Surgical you think. This must be surgical
Precise. You have only so much time
He’ll be home in fifteen. Here closes in twenty.
It’s a precise balance between action and indecision.
Do you? Don’t you? Must I?
Muß es sein? —Ja, es muß sein.

It’s a ten-minute drive. We went out of our way.
Your face haunts the nearest place
Familiar, a specter you don’t care to summon.
We slink slowly toward the one section that matters.
Eyes downcast, united in our guilt
United in our inner child
We know what follows but now? Not important.
We sit at the crest of the rollercoaster’s ascent
That moment of anticipation before the plunge.
The plunge will come but that’s not important.
Something to be dealt with tomorrow
Tomorrow, before we return to slink
Amongst each other.
Wraiths seeking but one thing. Just one —

That whiskey bottle on aisle 17.

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~ by Benji on 3 August 2014.

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