I’m at Walmart when I get a text that Roger just died, suddenly,
and now Walmart is death. It’s like death plans it this way,
so I can be holding a candy bar, in Walmart, as all Walmarts are haunted
by capitalism, which makes for sad, conflicted ghosts who tell you
to have a nice day. It’s summer, and here’s a woman in a puffy bright green
winter coat and a guy in full gas mask, respirator headgear, sci-fi stuff,
and they both must’ve been hot, but maybe both had good reasons.
A report is out today. The world scientists got together to say, yeah,
we’re pretty fucked on the climate, but there’s this caveat
of I guess good news, that they think the sea rise won’t be
worst-case scenario. Do you ever get this feeling
when you look around, and you’re like, hey, I’m part of this?
I’m afraid of that happening at Walmart. That in the next aisle over
a woman with red-orange-yellow sunburst make-up around her eyes

is dressed to jump in a pool, and she and winter coat
just passed each other and why am I the only one noticing this?
A person parked their electric Walmart basket wheelchair
between my truck and the long row of shopping carts, so I couldn’t
get around it, and I went to push it and those things don’t push,
and then I just looked foolish struggling, and why didn’t I just go
the other way behind my truck? Now people stop and look.
What is belonging anyway? Hot summer. I drive past a boy
standing in his driveway in a scary clown costume, doing that thing
where you cock your head 1/3 to the left. I say, “Hey clown,”
through my open window as I pass. Roger died six hours ago,
his first year into retirement. He was counting down all last year.
I’d get updates. How much longer, Roger? “Two months,
three days.” What are you going to do then? “Not be here.”