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.
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