Gravity

The kid on the corner today tripped

over his own shadow, his bag vomiting

notebooks and a bruised peach

onto the wet sidewalk. I didn't laugh.

I remember the fluorescent hum

of the dairy aisle, three years ago.

Twelve eggs in a cardboard box

and my hands just... quit. The sound

was a wet, heavy slap. A dozen

yellow suns broken in the gray grout,

snot-thick and bright. I stood there

waiting for the manager to yell.

But the man in the flour-dusted apron

didn't say a word. He just knelt

in the mess with me, handing me

a wad of brown paper towels,

his shoulder touching mine while

we wiped the floor clean.