Grocery Poem Vi

Behind me in line breathing heavy, often, the man kicks red clay from his boots. The day outside is hot, humidity strangling, but in line, the cool industrial air blows. My heart begins to beat in time with each of his ragged, work-worn breaths. He steps up to the counter ordering an Italian with absolutely no tomato. Red clay lies in his wake, waiting for the sweet release of a push broom death.