What I See

The conveyor belt moves slow,

and I watch the person in front of me

load their small collection onto it—

two avocados,

a bottle of wine,

ground meat in a foam tray.

The back of their neck is pale.

Their shoulders have the kind of tension

that says they're thinking about something

that isn't groceries.

I can see their hands shake

as they place the items,

the small deliberation over where each thing should go,

like the belt might judge them

for the order,

for what they're buying.

I stand here with my own things,

my own small decisions,

watching theirs.

There's something obscene about this,

the way we stand here exposed,

the way our choices move on metal,

visible,

catalogued.

The person in front of me turns slightly,

and I look away too fast,

guilt crawling up my neck

for watching,

guilt for seeing.