The Hum of the Line, Or, The Exposed Basket

Stuck.

Behind the coupon queen. Each one

a small, drawn-out negotiation

with the tired cashier.

The fluorescent lights hum, a sickly buzz,

overhead. I can feel the woman

behind me, breathing, a soft, impatient puff.

My basket, small, almost ashamed,

on the conveyor. A carton of eggs,

one bruised apple,

a bunch of parsley, already wilting

under the glare.

It all looks so pathetic,

laid bare on the rubber belt.

I watch the items glide,

a parade of mundane wants.

Her trolley, overflowing. My few things.

The space between us,

filled with that mechanical hum,

and the faint, sweet scent

of desperation,

or maybe just

overripe bananas.

I wish the belt would just

move faster.

Get it over with.

My little life,

scanned and judged.