artist in the supermarket

She stands in the aisle like reverse Stendhal:
frozen, her hand extended over the mound of apples.
Apples push into her like the fists of a lover
knocking at a locked door, urgent, juicy, plump.
It’s always like this: fruit overwhelms, vegetables
scream longing; fresh trout imagines a sizzling grill,
beef lounges in a marinade, ready to sear.
She wants to paint, to cook, to knead warm
resistant dough like willing flesh on a cool bed.
She thinks of Warhol overwhelmed by a soup can,
wants to find what organized fruit and vegetables
become when they morph into two-dimensional stasis
on canvas or paper or stone. She stands in the aisle,
a canvas studied by curious red apple skins.