The conveyor belt has a low mechanical growl

The conveyor belt has a low, mechanical growl

that vibrates through the soles of my boots.

I’m watching the black rubber slide toward the scanner,

doing the math in my head for the third time today,

subtracting the tax, adding the change in the cup.

The jam is a deep, expensive shade of purple,

with a gold foil seal that looks like a prize.

But the total on the screen turns a bright, angry red,

and I have to be the one to say it out loud.

I hand the jar back to the girl with the name tag.

She doesn't look up, just sets it on the shelf of rejects,

next to a dented can of soup and a pack of gum.

I walk out with my light bag and my heavy stomach,

counting the steps to the bus so I don't have to think.