Religion is a supermarket
The clerks have fled the registers
The manager quit last week
And people are grabbing avocadoes
Like they never had one
The echo of the sacred
Is barely heard.
The phosphorescent lights are blinking
In the inorganic section.
An old lady
In a wheelchair is praying
Silently to herself,
On aisle three.
I announce
Over this
Loud speaker
Dangling as it is
For any old voice
To say
At least
Something
Of value.
I had to speak
Before it’s all
Gone.