Dean Traylor is a freelance writer and teacher who writes about various subjects, including education and creative writing.
Closing in on midnight,
and my eyes have a blurry sight.
My ragged soul ventures
to the neighborhood grocery store, painted white.
Outside, ladies in a car take selfies,
giggling as they tease
the cellphone's lens.
Care not who sees.
Inside, an old, haggard man
fetches, opens and guzzles from a soda can.
Heavy, lonely eyes
gaze forward, blank and bland.
One man with a leg brace
-- bowlegged and a scarred face.
Seeks the booze
in 12 packs or a case.
All the while amidst this rage
of this supermarket cage,
Jim Morrison sings over the intercom.
Oh, that disheveled sage!
People are strange he says,
makes me wonder if he knew of these nighttime ways.
Still no doubt about this shopping palace;
It comes alive at the end of days.
© 2019 Dean Traylor