In the supermarket at the science fiction end

all is well, yet all my uneasy dreams come true again.

I am in need of bottles, sprays, tubes, preparations,

 

a pharmacist in crisp white coat is half concealed

and I drift to the holiday rotunda, for things

I never know that I might need on the hostile trip

to block out exposure to pain on some God - forsaken plain

 

baby feed is a gentle reach away and puffy things in bulky pads

all left unsaid, unspoken in white or pink

and I drift to choices and offers of interest only to the insane.

 

I say go back before it's too late, leave now

for the knowable - the food end, down to earth

where the real things grow and die frozen or chilled

first plucked or killed in their much travelled pods

unlike those other things at the science fiction end

where the man in the crisp white coat dwells

and dreams of night portend.