Still Yellow

I was fifteen the first time I took one.

The clerk had turned. The aisle was clear.

I slipped the tube into my sleeve—same yellow,

same cap—and walked from there.

No alarm. Cold air. I kept going.

I used it till it ran out flat.

Today I held the same design.

I knew exactly that.

The clerk was on his phone. The aisle

was long. I stood. I placed

it back. Both hands. The peg. Exact.

The deliberateness I'd pressed

into one motion.

I left. He barely looked.

I drove home.

The putting-back felt more like theft

than walking out at fifteen had.