Price Check

I went for soup.

The aisle was long, bright, cold,

the refrigerators keeping

whatever they'd been told.

I bent for the low shelf

and the floor took a slow lean—

I gripped the cart's front bar

and stared at the space between

my feet and the linoleum,

all its little squares.

A stranger's cart clipped past me.

Nobody slows. Nobody cares.

The logo on a soup can

went soft around its edge.

I stood there like I'd promised

to step back from a ledge

and hadn't moved yet.

When it passed I put the can in.

I pushed the cart toward the front.

The lights were doing it again.