The Eleven Items

The belt moves in jagged, nervous starts.

A single carton of eggs sits at the end,

sliding toward the scanner like a threat.

She is digging through a floral vinyl purse,

her knuckles swollen, red, and slow.

One penny, two, a nickel from the lining.

She counts them out as if they might grow.

The cashier stares at a point above the gum.

The fluorescent light hums a flat, sick note

that vibrates in the back of my own throat.

We are all just standing in the draft,

waiting for the math to finally work.