Express Lane

The belt stopped.

That black rubber road with its dried

pink ghost of strawberry yogurt

just quit.

I'm stuck behind a dozen cans

of store-brand broth and one grapefruit

that doesn't have a sticker.

The cashier sighs into her microphone,

a static-heavy plea for help

while the fluorescent tubes overhead

hum a low, vibrating note

right into my molars.

I look at the woman’s neck,

at the way her hair is pinned back

with a plastic clip that's missing a tooth.

She’s waiting for the fruit to have a value.

I’m waiting for the world to move.