Aisle Five

The acoustic guitar starts with a clumsy, bright chord,

the kind we used to play until the strings went dead.

Now it’s just background noise for the bored,

floating over the milk and the loaves of white bread.

I’m holding a bag of peas, the plastic sweating cold,

feeling the ice crystals melt against my palm.

The singer sounds young, and I have grown old

since this melody was our only version of calm.

I should put the vegetables back and just walk out.

The condensation is soaking through my sleeve.

There is no way to stop what the speakers shout

or the ghost of the girl who was the first to leave.