Inventory Loss

The kid in aisle four had that look,

shoulders tight as a closed book.

I held my gallon of milk like a shield

and watched his secret world get unsealed.

The manager had him by the elbow.

A tube of mascara, cheap and yellow,

fell from his sleeve to the tile floor.

I’ve been that body by the exit door.

I still remember the Zippo I took,

the jagged plastic, the way my hand shook.

It lived in my pocket, a cold, heavy weight,

scratching my thigh while I tempted fate.