Inventory at 8 AM

The generic brand has a blue stamp

and a crack along the lid.

I stand beneath the buzzing lamp

counting what the neighbor did

to get his truck to start so early.

I check the date, I check the weight,

my knuckles feeling tight and surly

while the stock-boy counts the freight.

Six dollars for a dozen shells.

The math is cold, the floor is wet.

I'm buying what the market sells

to pay a hunger or a debt.