A Supermarket in California

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down to the counter under the menus with a headache self-conscious looking at the espresso machine.
 In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went for a neon fruit smoothie, dreaming of your enumerations!
 What peaches and what bananas!  Whole families sipping at night!  Cups full of husbands!  Wives in the cappuccinos, babies in the espressos!–and you, García Lorca, what were you doing drinking that Frappuccino?

 I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the sandwiches in the refrigerator and eyeing the baristas.
 I heard you asking questions of each: Who made the egg salad?  What price bagels?  Are you my Angel?
 I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of scones following you, and followed in reality by the suspicious store manager.
 We strode down between the tables together in our solitary fancy tasting lattes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.

 Where are we going, Walt Whitman?  The doors close in a hour.  Which way does your beard point tonight?
 (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in this coffee shop and feel absurd.)
 Will we walk all night through solitary cafés?  The tables are covered in crumbs, the machines are turning off for the night, we’ll both be lonely.
 Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue Frappucinos in children’s mouths, home to our favorite table in the corner?
 Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the cream disappear into the black waters of Latte?

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