one, two, three for a dollar.
A soft loaf to one side,
crackers pushed to the other.
Polite, quiet, a nice looking man,
his smooth dark hair brushed,
waist trim, the kind of man
who would look about this same age
when he's in his seventies.
He announces the total, a small smile,
not quite meeting my eye.
While he waits for my check writing,
does he think about how he will do it?
Sometimes he loses minutes imagining
how long it will be before his wife finds out,
what his kids will say at school,
whether it might hurt more than living.
The tiniest pause until he notices
I've finished writing.
A second more for the receipt to print
as he checks again the steps he'll take,
like a tongue poking a missing tooth.
"Thanks," he says, "would you like help out?"
More groceries on the conveyer,
who will find him?
One, two, three for a dollar,
Will it hurt?
"Plastic or paper?" he asks.
Note: Today's prompt was to write about perfectionism and/or flaws, and this is what came to me. This poem is based on an obituary and photo of a man I recognized from the grocery store. I didn't know him, but his death shocked me. Like so many deaths like this, I always wonder why.
1 comment:
Loved it, Lee. You see and think things that no one else does. Kudos to you.
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