Cost of Living

Sunday. Some prosaic shopping. Egg whites,Neosporin. Something that won't dohalf bad in a Dutch oven. Leave out the spicesfrom Kashmir & St. Croix — they're too highoctane. Can't stand to upset your gutflora. Scant traffic in the aisles, little chatteror teem. Just gruesome reverb. One palsied wheel on a cartcomplains through subwoofers. But the shelves . . . abjectplenty. I eye aubergines with queenly poise, a GoldenDelicious of esteemed carat. & my sinuses keepgetting rearranged by the Sturm und Drangof the deli sauerkraut. Even the vitamin nook —with its bottles full of capsules full of alchemizedoptimism — sports a preteen blush. & beside that, the Arts& Crafts corner promises genuine folk. Camelhairrocking chairs, splotched oilcloths, tastefully distressedgarden trowels. & the centerpiece: a fraying duvetlolled over milk crates. Above it, a woodcut that reads AuthenticAppalachian Coverlet — Stitched by Yesterday'sPeople. & in tinier font: From Their KnobbyLoom to Your Drawing Room. But the tag tells me smugalmost that it was devised in Delaware, wovenin Pakistan. I can't account for why, but my pupils just goto pieces. Like old aspirin. Cryingkosher salt, I start to unburdenmy buggy: toss the probiotic, the pulsated microgreens. Piss off to the flax seed, the ethical cashewgoo. In slow hurry, I say today, I'm spryerthan I've ever been, & step deluxe to the icechest. In fine fettle, all fast-twitch brawn, I check out with zerobeyond the trailblazer essentials: meal, headcheese, cornswill. Quinine & a coonskin. The cashier shoots mea schoolmarm look, & I say lady, all I needis something that'll prefab a turd. “Triumph”by the venerable Bradford Paisley is loosedfrom the loudspeaker. A suckling contrarian, I steeltoethrough the automatic doors. Outside, southwesternestConnecticut. The first hoary ahems of Fallin the Cash Belt. Truly, this soothsaid chill tries its bestto teethe on me. Never fear: I'm wearing a windcheaterthe color of buzzards circlingback South.