Price Check

The bran flakes are on the middle shelf,

the ones he said tasted like salted cardboard.

I’m standing here in the fluorescent hum,

remembering how we went at it over the milk—

two percent versus the store-brand skim.

Twelve cents was the hill we chose to die on.

We traded insults about being frugal

while the cashier sighed and checked her nails.

Then the phone rang that night,

and the milk went sour in the fridge.

I see a box in someone's cart,

the corner crushed by a gallon of juice.

Just a dented bit of cardboard and ink,

heavy with the things we didn't say

because we were busy counting pennies.