Panda Excess
Amy Hill
By Andrea Mullarkey, Richmond, California, U.S.
Feeling deprived and lonely I grab my mask
and my key and head into the wilds of Richmond.
The energy of the pop station on the radio is infectious,
I am exuberant.
Take-out Chinese to soothe my weary stomach
awaits just beyond this small parking lot.
But there are eight other people in the store.
I count them twice while I stand on the X marked 5.
The family on X2 can't decide what they want.
Every moment of their indecision I am more convinced:
one of these strangers has infected me,
a customer or a cashier or, god-forbid, a cook.
I opt for beef instead of my favorite chicken,
unwilling to wait even a minute for a fresh batch.
Then decline the bag, the fork, the sauce, the receipt.
Even the cookie. And take the nearest exit into open air.
The car radio now tells me that Instacart is hiring,
pop energy obliterated by the pandemic economy.
Home in sight, my chest tightens, jaws clench.
I am already planning my decontamination ritual.
In the door, keys down, mask off, food plated
no fewer than 5 hand-washings later I sit at table
and am greeted by loneliness,
the feeling of deprivation replaced by existential dread
and the meows of a cat who wants to know
why I got to go outside and they did not.