Again, The Oil

Green label, same height on the shelf.

This olive oil, specifically this one.

My hand reaching, the exact same self

in this fluorescent grocery sun.

Scuffed linoleum underfoot,

the dull hum of the freezer aisle.

Did I stand here before, my root

anchored to this spot for a while?

This thought, this little snag in time,

that I have lived this moment through.

Felt this familiar, almost crime

of knowing what I’m about to do.

It's like a film strip, badly spliced.

Or a dream I can't quite recall.

Just the memory, barely priced,

of having seen this before, all.