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A Supermarket in California
Allen Ginsberg
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What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I
walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache
self-conscious looking at the full moon.In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into
the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families
shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the
avocados, babies in the tomatoes!–and you, Garcia Lorca, what
were you doing down by the watermelons?I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber,
poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the
grocery boys.I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork
chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans
following you, and followed in my imagination by the store
detective.We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary
fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and
never passing the cashier.Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an
hour. Which way does your beard point tonight?
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the
supermarket and feel absurd.)Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees
add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we’ll both be
lonely.Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue
automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what
America did you leave when Charon quit poling his ferry and
you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat
disappear on the black waters of Lethe?..
