Line
The checkouts all seem to know me,
have developed a patience for my
fumbling and bungling, my slim
attempts at humor, my predictable
comments about the weather.
One likes to kid about my footwear,
The sandals I wear too late in the season,
my awkward winter boots, the ole
“shit kickers” I wear into the Spring.
The one who talked politics got demoted,
bags sometimes, sometimes sweeps up
after us, the proverbial clean-up in aisle
three, the roof that continues to leak.
I taught some of them, tried to get them
to write their way out of here, midweek,
mid-afternoon patiently ministering to
senior citizens, the under-employed, and
those few remaining housewives.
The man ahead of me is trying to pay
with his insurance card, the one behind
me keeps jiggling the controls of his
motorized shopping cart.
I have thirteen items in the express line.
It is just two-thirty in the afternoon.
This is the best moment of our day.