Anxiety grips my stomach
and twists my balls
like a wine screw's handle
staring at the rows of chocolate candies
that throw themselves at me like
backlit district window dancers
before I bail out of line
to rethink the five dollar bill
in my pocket
and the gallon of milk in my basket.
I can eat them
only once.
I can drink it
for a week.
The blue toilet cake however
will flush joyously
for a month
and my nose
will thank me
that much more sincerely
than a full and
abusive stomach.
I smile to the cashier
who asks me if "that's it"
for a twelfth time,
sliding the palm hot clorox package
over the red hatched lines.
"Yes, that is exactly it."
