Super Stores in America – a poem by John Ian Bush


An Enormous parking lot is surrounding a titanic building of white and blue and dark blue with white letters,


And, like Heaven, there’s someone at the door to greet you.

How lovely.

Agonizing beeps from the registers. People in red vest standing,

Behaving as robots.

Cash or credit?

Cash or credit?

Grandmas and Grandpas in the medicine lines.

My mother also in those lines,

The house needs Its anti-depressant.

I have a secret, I don’t trust doctors.


     Remember, that’s a secret.

I’m starting to think they have the walls bugged.

I’m digressing, though.

Back to the many point.

People walking about, aggravated, pushing carts. They count the price of the things in their carts with their eyes.

Nosy people looking in the carts of others.

Teenaged boys stalking about, checking out the asses and breasts of the women passing by.

Oh, youth. Oh, unsophisticated sex drive. Where have you gone?

     I see into the clothing section.

I women who work in the dressing room are talking and putting the clothes back on hangers.









God damn those bright lights on the ceiling!

My eyes are sore now!

There’s cameras!

There’s cameras everywhere around us, and worse yet, we can’t see them!

This place is God-like!

In the groceries, the stock boys are stocking.



Red and white cans of soup for pocket change.

Wild caught chuck light tuna.

BOXES! BOXES! BOXES of Ramen noodles!

Red beef!

Orange chicken!

Yellow and green cans of sweet corn!

Small salty cans of potted meat!

Damn, I need a stiff drink!

Thank God, there’s a sell on white wine!

Thank God, a cheap drunk!

And to think, I just came here to get some paper and paper clips.



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Modernist writer and poet.