Stealing Cat Food At Midnight

I come out of the grocery store and
sit in the Nova. 
It's only about 20 seconds until 
I start the car but
in my head it's an hour. 

It's come down to this, 
I think. 
The back of my dress has come apart
just a little bit
because the zipper's a piece of shit. 
What do I care, I guess, since
I got it for a dollar
at my neighbor's garage sale they had
to raise money for his medical bills
after he had a stroke
and a heart attack
at the same time. 

I don't really care, except
what a sad picture it must make me. 
The dress is unraveling in the front, too. 
At least it's blue. 

I sit in the Nova thinking 
about my dress
and the fact that I'm about to 
go home and pour myself a stiff whiskey
even though I said I wasn't going to
drink this week. 

What do I care, I guess, 
since I only drove to this store
so I could buy cat food at midnight, 
which is about the most depressing thing 
a person could ever do. 

I should have stolen it, at least. 
Run out screaming
with a 20 pound bag
in my frayed blue stroke dress
and sad, sad eyes. 

They'd never have caught me. 
What grocery store employee
wants to stand between that banshee
and the exit? 
They don't pay them enough there
to stop a mess like me from 
stealing cat food at midnight. 

It almost makes me laugh, but 
not really. 
Not even close. 
So far from it, the thought
might as well be 
the Sahara desert
or Muhammad Ali
or my kids who died two years ago. 
I don't laugh. 
I do wonder, though, if 
they're hiring on the graveyard shift 
at the grocery store. 
Sounds like a job I'd like. 

I let that thought go away and 
start the Nova, 
drive home in the Nova, 
crying with the cat food, 
and pour that whiskey, 
stiff.