Shelf Life

The conveyor belt, a sluggish snake,

moved groceries slow,

each beep a tiny, sad mistake,

a hesitant, soft blow.

The woman fumbled for her card,

her coupons all a mess,

each second felt a little hard,

a public, waiting stress.

We stood in line, a silent plea,

for movement, any sign,

just wanting to be finally free,

and leave this checkout shrine.

The cashier’s eyes were glazed and deep,

her smile a practiced art,

while all our packaged secrets sleep,

waiting to be torn apart.