Unexpected Item

The barcode is a series of broken ribs

on a bag of frozen peas, wrinkled and damp,

and the red laser just keeps hitting the plastic

and bouncing back like it’s offended.

'Please wait for assistance,' the machine says,

a flat, midwestern judgment that rings

through the whole aisle.

The woman behind me is tapping her card,

a frantic, rhythmic plastic-on-flesh sound

that’s burrowing into the base of my skull.

I’m smoothing the bag, trying to make it readable,

but the light on the pole has turned red,

a small, cheap emergency flashing over my head

while the ice starts to melt in my grip.