"bagboy" poems
I work as a bagboy at a local grocery, and today, a woman
Mid-sixties
Stained white blouse
Offered to pray for me as thanks for my service.
I,
Godless, simply replied,
No thank you,
I can handle that myself.
Later I was marching around the parking lot, hunting for carts
Like a mother for missing children when I spotted
An elderly couple. Their hands joined
As they shuffled into the mouth of the store. I was still outside when
They left, and noticed then that they held hands only at the palm, fingers
Resting clumsily upon each other. The both of them, I now noticed,
Smiling.
Suddenly I wished I could
Will myself back an hour
And tell the lady with the stained white blouse,
Pray that arthritis is cured.
Oct 15, 2011
Oct 15, 2011 at 4:36 AM UTC
two feet shuffle
onto the matted down, stained-brown, maroon-ish
welcome mat while
a head shakes off the dusting of snow
its shaggy hair has collected.
breath billows out of a mouth
like smoke from a burning cigar as
a body, with glasses fogged, fingers frosted,
bundled up in scarfs, and mittens, and layers galore
inches into the grocery store
where a bagboy slouches in a
half-dazed stupor, eyes glued to the clock,
a self-righteous old lady with her
back bent, voice shrill,
haggles the price of soup
and a baggy-eyed mom snaps hushed
chastisements to a dirty-faced boy,
with ratty hair falling onto his blushed face.
in this store, customers move slow,
with nowhere to be and nowhere to go
and the holiday jingle heard playing
above them, betrays their heavy hearts
and sunken spirits.
outside, it is cold,
but inside this store,
it is no different.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 2:24 AM UTC