The last thing that I want to do
when I get home from work
is to write a poem about it
Beneath the buzz of the cash register
a million thoughts dart through my mind
I am not really here
among eighteen beeping check-outs;
amidst the scraping of a thousand
bottles and jars across the beams
Eyes glaze over:
I am at last night's party,
the drink still fizzling in my mouth,
amiably chatting and joking with friends.
The beat of the music
continues in my head
as a customer receives his change.
Once at home,
I dream of snow peas and cucumbers
61 item code -- 99 produce -- grocery total
my arm reaches for a heavy
carton of milk and lowering it
into the bag
I realize;
I have left work
but it has not left me...
FREE VERSE DH
