Shaw's Supermarket, Monday evening

The chicken, pinch-faced clerk said
"The what?" tired, freckled face asked
"El pollo," picking up the brown, basted bird.

The pinched face, impatient, weary:
"Don't you have any cash? 99 cents?"
Ninety-nine cents was the difference,
What her welfare card couldn't cover.

Now Pinch-Face and Bagger are rummaging
Alien hands rifle through grocery bags,
Hurriedly looking for the missing dollar.
A disdainful hand searches, finds a package:
Fudge-stripe cookies. A luxury, Bagger thinks.
The black eyes see her daughter's face
Lighting up at an open lunch box
The woman silently shakes her head no.

The hands continue. The woman resigns,
Wordlessly pointing to the plastic container.
"The chicken?" Pinch-Face asks, relieved.
Freckled face nods, and the night's dinner,
Glossy-skinned bird, returns to its rotisserie coop,
Gliding away in the hands of a manager
Burgundy sports coat descended in for the occasion.
Mutely taking her reward, two crumpled dollars,
Freckled face held high as she pushes the cart away.

June 10, 1998
Hartford, Connecticut

Supermarket poems

Fred Meyer Supermarket, Wednesday evening

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