Steve Honeysuckle

if it ever gets stormy

I'm at the store buying things off the racks and shelves, pulling down gargantuan bottles of mouth wash and loafs of bread longer than my arms, which are getting considerably tired from all the heavy lifting;
 my arms I mean.

 I've a tube of toothpaste the size of a hero sandwich in my hand when a bulgy woman and man bowl my cart over with their own, spraying tortilla chips and marshmallows down the aisle.
 Naturally, I cuss at them and they ignore me, too busy scavenging what fell. Clearly, they are in the same way as everyone, careening about the mart with their basket full, 
piling more atop of more while there's still some to be had. I'm no different, to be fair, but I think I came because of them; swept up in their tide.
 There's a drought, or a famine, or a recession on, so I was told and should have no reason to doubt. Maybe it was an atomic bomb on the way, drifting down to us right now, and it's time to stock up, head to higher ground... or is it lower?
 I'm never sure. I followed my neighbors here, I think. It would be as good a reason as any, I suppose. I pick up what the bulgy pair left me, a pack of toilet paper you could pad your mattress with, two barrels of baked beans and ham, and a tower of blank CDs I might use to support my roof if it collapses. It'll do. At least until the rains come, or whatever.