standing in line in the 2 am grocery store alone, orangejuice eggs
and a copy of guitarplayer magazine separate us and you write your
check. i saw you when i came in, you saw me, eyecontact but
strangers remain such on saturday mornings when black coats the
world black like my clothes like my mind like me. behind me
security guard in blueblue shirt immense ocean swell of stomach
pushing out and *four* packages of smoked turkey wings? i imagine a
stench for his breath, picture him gnawing hungrily on bones of
dead birds, tossed-aside bones a cage around him. enclosing his
soul (or what's left of it after 20 years of nighttime flashlights
and morning forages through the aisles).
you pay, you look back, you leave but don't go, instead browse free
magazines in their racks, grab a paper, grab another and i pay
ninetynine cents and get a bag of saltine-box for my trouble and
pass you as i leave, and you follow and i feel your gaze like fire
and i walk toward my house so fucking alone and you walk to your
car and strangers must remain such even at 2 am on saturday.
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