Armed with the Tibetan Book of the Dead

inside a mini-mart on North Avenue.

Converters are plopping into my shopping cart uninvited.

They settle in uncomfortably quick—

tall pinstripe socks draping over the side,

hissing the best deals on Chef Boyardee.

They are on every box I turn over

and every container I examine.

They, too, are containers.

I purchase a pack of cigarettes that I won’t enjoy

and walk out.

My pursuers have long since opened the ice cream freezer,

running orange and blue push-pops obscenely

along the storefront window.

I sit in my Volvo and pray.

The whole time they are in my peripherals,

smearing sunsets onto the glass.