With her hair up in pin-curls. and runs in her hosiery.
There goes the Mrs., hell-bent for the grosiery.
Duck in a doorway, if such you can find;
Mother is driving- -with food on her mind.
She just wants to grab up an item or two–
No cart, and no basket: her two hands will do.
Let’s see now, coffee? Yes, dearie, drip-grind;
That large box of cookies, the elegant kind.
We’re fresh out of fruit, will it be pears or peaches?
And the larger the can, why, the farther it reaches.
I’m sure we need catsup. Sweet pickles and sour.
I’ll grab off a chore-girl, and hm-m-m, yes, some flour.
And while I am in here, there’s sugar and Crisco;
And olives from someplace , and raisins from ‘Frisco.
Then back to the store front. By fits and by starts
I’ve enough stuff for two of those hard-steering carts.
And so I add lettuce and Irish potatoes;
And all that’ll rhyme here is (of course) tomatoes.
I think I need butter, and from the deep- freeze
There’s corn and strawberries, asparagus, peas.
How about string-beans? Pork-chops , or honey?
I wonder if I have along enough money?
And so to the check-out; gangway, for it’s late.
Who ‘d think those three sacks would go twelve-ninety- eight?
“And cook what for supper?”–friend husband will beg.
AND DO ALL THIS SHOPPING? I’ll fry him an egg.
by Ray Romine Wednesday, February 23, 1949
