I've always like "A Supermarket in California", although my liking of the poem is tied up tightly with hearing Ginsberg read it aloud. I always hear it in my head in Ginsberg's voice.

I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?

I was reminded of the line while reading Keat's "Ode on a Grecian Urn"—a poem for which I have never had any particular fondness, but today, for some reason, it came alive to me.

What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?