one aisle over
driving from Yosemite he says he’s busting and he can’t hold on for the life
of God and Jesus to boot
before the car is even parked he’s racing to the Mohave market with the single moms
outside next to the carts with the tag do not steal, property of
that you see outside every market in America
peeled baby carrots, hummus and a trashy magazine
are gathered in the interim before he reemerges slowly
spent like a dam now dry and a goofy grin, apologetic from all the urgency
the short woman at the check out stand is waiting for them and
starts yip yipping like a chihuahua
friendly until she sees his t-shirt with the men pushing red wheelbarrows over the
— we don’t need the boss, the boss needs us!
— excuse me? we didn’t hear you, we say.
— Swamp thing! she tells him. You better go back to the Santa Barbara.
everyone is a stranger someplace