Waiting At the Grocery Store

Waiting at the Grocery Store Looking around, my fingers fidgeting a multicolored scarf, Searching through pockets for a letter that needs to be read, a phone call message I need to hear, but there are none. And I am going over the list one more time, Standing semi-still under artificial lights, Balancing on alternate limbs For a carton of skim milk, a loaf of French bread, coffee grounds, cream. With the arm of a dangling child, a mother rushes by Pushing cold rubber wheels across the linoleum. The frantic woman at the register cries about her coupon. Preparing for a battle, she shakes her head And waves the war flag, Fifty-five cents off a box of Lucky Charms. She spits discontent at a tiny, gray haired cashier. “Expired?” In the distance a child is being abused. There will be no gum, no M&Ms, no sugar-silence. The man behind me chimes, “Man, these lines. Never seen such lines.” And he lies about a place where there are no lines. He looks in my eyes, tries. I barely nod, no need for provoking conversation. Like the man at the bar who mistook, “Hello” for “Let’s go ****.” The back of my head still throbs. And I hate them all. And I shift away, burning in my skin under the artificial lights, Waiting for waiting.