my supermarket in california

is that you, joey ramone
among the heads of lettuce
tomatoes heinz 57 and miracle whip

rough but sweet
like this lot of artisanal bread
we asked for it

not to be
released because this
is our america

where i look into faces
lost in thought
weighing to buy

a few oranges
and oscar meyer weiners
you know the drill, joey

thick chords clustered like fists
and that voice
i find you

and me here
thronged and haloed
not as angels

but free to choose
between either fat tire
or the anchor steam beer