Needlessly complicated instructions mar the horizon
as thousands of green-tailored checkout clerks dance the Polka
to the tune of Paper or Plastic
spiraling the motorcade homeward under a darkening sky.
It is the Autumn of Our Discontent, effortlessly choreographed
in billowing clouds of Sturm und Drang
airbrushed over a graying cityscape
frozen perishables skittering about.
Off-camera, a killing frost fast approaches;
its mixture of pizzaz and supplication
as enticing as eighteen holes
which, come to think of it, is certainly doable
and could be just what the doctor ordered
although with his malpractice suits
he'd be better off assuming a pseudonym
and hightailing it to the nearest dry cleaning establishment.
