Limping Through the Produce

Thud-tack. Thud-tack.

The linoleum is too bright

for this kind of rhythm.

I am trailing a ghost of sugar

and the spit of a stranger.

There is a pebble wedged

in the deep tread of the left heel,

a tiny, jagged tooth of granite

that won't let the floor stay flat.

I stand by the bruised bananas

and try to scrape my soul

against the metal edge of the rack.

Everyone is looking at my feet

while I’m looking for the exit.