Third Period

He was holding a mesh bag of oranges

by the frozen peas, his knuckles white.

He didn't see me, or if he did,

I was just another shadow in the aisle.

I remember the cedar shavings in the bin,

that sharp, dry scent of something being thinned.

He took the charcoal from my hand

and drew a heavy red line through the hip

of the woman I had spent an hour trying to see.

"Proportion," he said, as if it were a law.

Now I look at the child's drawing in the window

and all I can see is the error, the tilt,

the way he killed the joy of the messy line.