The Supermarket Defeated
Paul Cordiero
The Puerto Rican housewife
cuts in front to the wrong line
that's cash express and not
food stamps and bilingual ready.
Four of her five kids hang inside
the cart or off it while hubby holds
new baby's head in his arms like a melon
or milk half gallon that won't feed five.
My cash flow problems seem lighter
than my food shoppers head,
as I force out a smile to her second youngest
who brings up the wrapped cheese
to sniff and says he loves it in Spanish
like its his desert island rose.
If it wasn't for these confused breeders
whittling down the checkout girls' care
and lovely smile, I'd think the world tired
as me from a twelve hour shift of fitting shoes.
I tell myself to hang on through as I could
be the next laughing stock or cuckolded husband.
I see how easy bone and tooth decay accelerates
even for the Harvard and Vanderbilt educated.
Embodied by my friend, the southern raised
and agrarian poet, Dr. Of Political Science,
who crosses my vision and leans on his carriage all elbows
as he slowly pushes himself towards the book aisle clutter.
He's going to browse the Time and Newsweek
he can't afford to by and he doesn't care
if the world notices he's pissed his pants again
and hasn't any southern charm or pride left in him.
