A gestation of trees on the cookie box bounces in
the cart-basket from fighting orbits of a front wheel
trapped in a socket. Round and round, quickly
through the aisles we patrons move around
each other. We are afraid these feelings might
be known, that there are, that people who love
people are the happiest people in the market.
The overhead speaker grills a fish special. The way
we look at each other, our security founded upon
early refusals to follow desire, upon cutting coupons.
So we perform the expected. The market wild card
is a quick-check girl who gives that eye, the one inspiring
air with each hand swipe, each pressed button
before a glass door gliding automatically.
[This poem is from from The Fall of Because (c 1999), which can be ordered at http://www.puddinghouse.com/pub-guide.htm .]