Mr. Robertson at the Supermarket

Recently, he stopped doing his own shopping. 
Unpacking groceries made him unbearably sad. 
The bags were too full of things he already knew,

so he decided to let other people
choose his food for him.  The man in Produce
sent him to the Customer Service Desk,

where the Assistant Manager smiled, shrugged,
apologized.  He nodded and pushed his empty basket
toward the back of the store, where in the cereal aisle

he found an unattended shopping cart
full of food, and shuffled to the checkout. 
In the evenings after dinner, he sits

at his kitchen table and thinks about things.
For example, organic deodorant,
beets, baby food, feminine hygiene,

unscented anti-static dryer-towelettes.
For example, the woman across the hall
and her nine cats, each named for one of the planets;

his Japanese Maple bonsai, whose tiny branches
toss and quake with his breath; his goldfish, whose mouth
endlessly forms and re-forms the slow shape

of a question he can never quite hear.