Subtotal

The milk is sweating through its plastic skin.

I scan the carton and wait for the beep,

but the air in the cereal aisle has gone thick,

like trying to breathe through a wet wool coat.

My jaw locks. It’s a mechanical failure,

the back teeth grinding a slow, rhythmic salt

until I taste the copper of a cut inside my cheek.

I’m standing still, but the floor is tilting away.

The light is failing above the scanner glass,

a quick, blue flicker across the red laser line.

I don't need to know the total.

I just need the doors to slide open

and let the cold back in.