Harris Teeter was our concrete niche.
We called it Harry *****, and I would visit you there
your last summer at home.
You were a bag boy;
sometimes you corralled green carts,
pushing them in rows in the rain.
On our first date
you tied a leaky balloon to my wrist
to follow my route above the aisles.
And while your greasy, bespectacled boss
listened to customers' complaints about
rotten pears, lost receipts, expired coupons,
you found my bobbing balloon
and snuck me into the carpeted break room–
coffee-stained, fluorescent-lit dinginess.
All I could think about was my wagon
full of groceries, abandoned in the store.
But then you whispered, dimpled,
that this was what made work worthwhile,
and I thought of nothing but your honey lips
and arms that fit me like a worn sweater.
In the minutes it took my blue balloon
to drain its helium and graze the ground,
wrinkled and stretch-marked and fetal-curled,
we strolled the aisles and ate free dragon cookies,
arguing creamy vs. crunchy, fresh vs. frozen.
Our fingers pointed to the makings of our favorite meals.
You re-donned your cherry apron
and piled my cart with bags irrelevant,
while your boss remained as naive as I.
