Rippin’ Bags

My nose is drippin’,

there’s a hair in my mouth,

breathin’ like a fat kid

who runs while piggin’ out.

Grocery bags are rippin’,

food is fallin’ out.

Hope I get there in time

before my food hits the ground.

At least I didn’t buy eggs,

gotta move these sore legs,

I look to the sky,

There’s sun behind the clouds,

I see a coyote ghost

standin’ on a dirt mound.

The wind is blowin’,

it gives me a chill,

but I’ve got a fever

Going up this hill.

Hill got me burnin’,

yearnin’ to take it slow,

but grocery bags are rippin’,

gotta keep on movin’

before food starts to roll.

There’s a sound behind me,

what was that?

I’m feeling scared.

I turn around,

nothing is there,

nothing is there…

but an onion!

in the dirt.

Hope it didn’t get bruised,

hope it didn’t get hurt.

Cradling the bags,

trying to stop the tear,

but the ginger fell out,

it needed some air,

but I picked it up

and put it back with care.

I’m on the homestretch,

I’m almost in the clear.

There’s a cement path

perfect for a wheelchair.

The path steers me there,

an emergency crash landin’

for food with condensation,

makes the outside not dirty

though it still wouldn’t be pretty

’cause it’s no compensation

for what may end in an explosion.

The windy road is endin’!

A step, a door, a key,

an openin’!

I’m home and happy,

oh so tired, oh so hungry.

I fall asleep with a full tummy,

until woken by a cry that said,

“Hey! Our fridge is empty!”


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