In the Produce Section
Citrus cathedrals, stacked against stacks of themselves
and in between the lemons and the grapefruits someone’s grandmother
works her hands into some understanding of each fruit
measuring each gem against the next.
Her knobbed hands, they’re alive enough
and the toddler squawking from his shopping cart perch, he’s alive enough
but not so alive as the Spanish women bickering in the rice aisle,
hot fricative diction in their percussive tongue
not so alive as the drift down each aisle
and knowing you don’t want any of it,
not wanting the cotton balls, the processed cheese, the hot dogs,
the mouthwash the tinned beans the crock pot,
black plastic trash bags, peppermint toothpicks, dental floss for dogs,
Cosmopolitan, Good Housekeeping, 700 color -coded q- tips.
Not wanting not wanting.
Digging into this old purse now,
rooting through for some spare change, car keys, the old road home
to the one who will split that little division of perfection with you,
devouring jewels while the sun makes gains
on a new day.
