Conveyor Belt Logic

The line, a slow snake,

inches forward.

A woman in front,

her face a tight knot,

arguing with the girl

behind the till,

about a coupon, yellowed,

expired, she insists

it's still good,

a matter of principle,

not worth a dime.

My basket holds a loaf of bread,

a single bruised apple,

a carton of milk.

The conveyor belt,

a black river,

carries my small, sad bounty

towards the scanner's red eye.

A baby starts a soft, wet cry

two carts down,

a sound like rusty gears.

No one turns.

We just stand,

breathing the same stale air,

waiting for the principle to break.

The apple, it rolls,

stops just before the edge.