The Static

I saw him near the canned goods, by the sauce and the salt.

He was wearing that coat with the fraying left sleeve.

I slowed down my cart, felt the gears grind to a halt,

and realized there wasn't a way to believe

that we still had the words or the right to the time.

He picked up a jar of the garlic and red,

studying the label like it was a crime,

or a list of the things that we never quite said.

I focused on the marinara, the price and the weight,

reading the sugar and the sodium count.

We passed in the aisle, two ships carrying freight,

and the silence was more than I knew how to mount.