Ode to Deborah

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
if You've worked at a Grocery Store, You've had a Deborah too.

Disclaimer: no Old Men were harmed in the making of this Poem.

Submitted: February 16, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: February 16, 2017



“I call This ‘Ode to Deborah’ because the original Name was much less appropriate. . .”


Sloth is a deadly Christian sin, of Seven the one that plagues You so -

Death, upon You I wish as your

gray Cart sits amidst the fragile sea of Cars,

my Heart fills to the brim with hatred as I watch you push your Chariot to the Curb and let it sit;

just five feet further the other way and in my mind You would still live,

eyes I see a barren Field of Damn's, none You give, how selfish -

as You turn to leave I sit and wish in secrecy for a gust of Wind to catch your Cart and bring it

crashing into your front end;

Karma is a Bitch,

but alas my Dream goes unfulfilled.


I remember your face, see it in those of everyone who lazily slips the front

wheels over the Curb,

why do You all torment me so?

your Carts rest in Mandala - Balanced Chaos so near to Cars so delicate yet care You do not,

your one desire is to return to your Home one minute sooner, for what?

am I not a Person too? your Action so seemingly ineffectuous [my word: not having any effect]

causes me to return to mine an hour late,

I have Things to do -

your obnoxious, lazy Face haunts my hallucinations as I deprive myself of sleep to finish this

damned Poem,


Midnight and I am sixteen, I should be asleep but no, your Matters are less trivial;

no. I implore You to know They are not, all it takes is thirty Seconds -

push the bloody Cart to the Corral. . .

I see You growing self-aware, You see me staring a chasm into your cold, dead Eyes;

why be You so


stings as the spiteful Fire consumes me -

starting at my Phalanx and ending in my Core -

Those remaining in the Lot have learned from You,

“Monkey see, Monkey do,”

the Wheels spin eternally as they dangle above the grass, mocking me. . .


You stroll into the Store at Five-to-Nine and dawdle in the Aisles with such , screw

You Deborah,

I’ve work to be done;

I’ve been here since Four and your Shopping Spree had to begin at Close, why? You suck, I hate

you so -

I’m sent to check your progress for seeming Eternity - once, twice, thrice,

why, dear Jesus, won’t she leave?

after what feels like Millenia You finally make your way to the Front of the Store,

You so slowly unload your Cart, it’s Contents spilling like Beer Froth to the Floor,

Your bag of freshly fried Chicken sits mockingly beneath my Nose,

on the belt, then up You look.

You utter the words, “I have so much to get done so You’d better hurry, Thomas.” - [long, angry pause]

[quietly] what did You just say to Me?

[slowly build] in my Mind your smug Face caves in under my angry Fists, You’ve so much to get

done? [loudly] then why the hell are We here at 9:30?

I precariously place your “oh so precious” Items in poorly fortified Plastic Bags,

I know how strong the Walls stand but You, oh so opinionated, insist on butting in,

loudly You state to Noone that cares, “if only They taught the Baggers how to properly do their


well woe is You, You obnoxious being, if my Method You dislike then, by all means, bag your

own Groceries because I am at my Breaking Point, my Fuse is running short,

Cliches are the only way I can express the Pain that makes me want to shut your massive Head in

a Car Door,

the Swath of Plastic in the middle of our Oceans thanks You for your generous Contribution, You

wasteful individual.


[normal voice] again Time passes and the Memory of You does not fade;

I see you walk in as I patrol the busy Parking Lot - don’t You dare, thinks I,

but You do, for twenty Minutes later You return and as You depart,

against the curb sits your metal Cart -

I despise You.

I sit and spectate with such gratitude as the seventy-year-old man who watched You spite me so

delivers your Cart from its improper resting place.

once I reach the door I thank him for his help and he jokes with me, "don't you hate people like


to converge again,

You remain a distinct memory in my spiteful, tired head;

that is until just twenty minutes later when the Man returns,

to his car He absconds with your Cart, unloading its contents,

upon completion, He looks to me

laughing hysterically as He sets his Cart against the Curb. . .

He leaves in his Car, much nicer than my own -

speeding away like a Teenager who just got their license and is about to lose it quickly -

in my Mind’s eye

I picture Him colliding with a Semi as justice is finally served and I cry out:


“who’s laughing now Old Man?”


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