Grocery List

Bread. Milk. Eggs. We're running low on dish soap. Get Dawn, it works better. Compassion, if you can find it. I haven't seen it in a while. Just check. Apples. A green vegetable for dinner tomorrow. Maybe broccoli or asparagus. Whatever looks fresh. Understanding. I used the last when Uncle Pete got drunk at James and Danny's wedding. Tomatoes. Spaghetti noodles. A sense of humor. Not the store brand that relies on slapstick gags and potty jokes - something more refined. Mint. Passion. Not that kind, we still have plenty. The fist shaking kind. Like the night I met your brother for the first time and he said writing wasn't a real job. Your words left deep red gashes on his ego. Read the label. Be sure it has lots of conviction - and bubbles. Movie theater butter microwave popcorn. Accountability. I thought we had enough but after last night - when you yelled at the dog because he got into the bag of Doritos you left of the coffee table. You should pick some up. And some Doritos. Self worth. I am tired of crying because the clothes will never look as good on me as they do on the faceless mannequins at Kohl's, comparing myself to the airbrushed teenagers on the magazine covers. And you, your stomach in knots over things you should have said, should have done. So afraid no one will like your poems - or worse, no one will listen - that you give up with the words half written. You may have to go to more than one store. Maybe a dozen. Paper plates. Ground beef. Hope.