Market Rate

The scanner chirps a sharp and steady beat,

the total climbing higher than it should.

The woman pulls her jacket from the heat

and puts the carton back where it had stood.

The grey pulp feels like paper in my palm,

a soggy mass of news and bitter math.

I try to keep my breathing flat and calm

while counting out the cents along the path.

Twelve shells of calcium and liquid gold

are suddenly too dear for her to keep.

The checkout aisle is turning grey and cold;

the things we need have gotten far too steep.