That Bitch on the Bread Aisle (a poem)

It was staring at the whole wheat, organic, high fiber, no trans fat, sodium free, steroid free loaves

It was wearing bright pink sweat pants with the word “JUICY” spread across both ass cheeks, the “UI” sucked into the designer thong cavity, screaming for release.

I couldn’t find the 99cent generic Publix brand hot dog buns,
My eyes strained for the all white bread goodness, its eyes reading labels to disguise an attempt at being healthy.

I wanted to stop staring at it, but I couldn’t, I needed to see the blood from the train wreck, the pieces of bone from the auto crash, the land mine aftermath.

“Excuse me, do you know where the hot dog buns are?” I asked it.

“I don’t eat hot dogs, I wouldn’t know,” it replied without even looking in my direction.

Well shit, my fucking bad, I guess I should’ve known.
It was just a bitch on the bread aisle who wants to be 20 again.

Thanks for the collagen, thanks for the Ughs, thanks for your husband fucking his secretary instead of you.  Thanks for the suburban, thanks for the diamond studded Iphone.

I found the buns and walked out with my soul.

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