POEM XXXVI: “INSIDE HOME DEPOT”

Every one smells the same.
Like a pine tree soaked in WD-40.

Inside, the canyons of plywood echo up
to a warm orange ceiling:

not so terribly different from a real canyon,
come to think of it.

And if a flash flood came through,
we’d have to use the employees-only ladders to escape.

Thank God we’re in Home Depot,
so no one will notice that we’ve scaled the shelves
and are clinging like monkeys
grinning at each other from across the aisle
as a riptide of churning brown water
clears the way for a new, flood-clean world.

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