The Checkout Line

The rubber belt is moving slow,

hauling the aspirin and the loaf of bread.

I have so many things to know,

and nothing left that can be said.

I watched you buy a pack of mints

behind the black plastic divider bar.

I haven't really seen you since

you walked out to the parking lot car.

The sliding doors hissed open wide.

You didn't turn to see the cost.

I’m standing here with all this pride,

counting up the things I lost.