linoleum & dust

peter stood at 5'6
a stout thing
with little legs

balding, too,
(adding insult to injury)
and worn plastic
glasses that slid
down his nose

his fingers were
thick, and round, with
nails trimmed by
teeth at
laser precision (just
before the blood
line bursts)

i watched those
fingers drag
the red bicyclette
across the machine's
eye

head down
glasses retreating

he stood watching
the customer bag his own
groceries

not so much refusing
to help, like bartleby,
but rather like a soldier
without the legs

to run


[shoulders caved in,
eyes that camoflage
with linoleum &
dust]


"sir, i'll need you to swipe
your card again"

he interrupts his own
quiet, palm on
pad where everyone
enters their secrets

(kids birthdays,
high school graduation,
virginity lost)

standing there, watching,
my stomach re-invented
itself

thinking of my nephews
and all i hope they never
become

it's not the checkout
or the employee i.d.
engraved by some
corporate entity
that bothers me

but that look in
peter's eyes — those
eyes blurred through
dirty lenses —
when he finally looked

up

(and then down again)

oh, peter,

i imagine once upon a
time you, too,

stomped on your shadow
& made your mother a valentine,
scrawling your name
with the sort of pride that only
a five-year-old knows

this is not what i want
for them

that look, peter,

that look

i see it, again, exiting the store

the man waiting for the bus
the old women hobbling through parked cars
the people who gather and honk

(demanding they hurry along)

it's everywhere, peter,
isn't it?

that look

i see it in me, too,
slamming the trunk
lid

staring into
eyes i scarcely
recognize

opening the
car door
and slouching
into my seat

as if becoming

(again)

a slave to

myself

©thirdworstpoetinthegalaxy, 2007