At the Grocery Store
A chunky little woman in a floral shift danced her cart my way,
admonishing in a clear voice you never can win when I noticed
Cole Porter spilling all over aisle six from tinny speakers embedded
in the acoustic ceiling, unlikely candy for the regulars: shuffling
old men, young mothers in jelly colored tank tops talking intently
to cell phones while perching sticky babies on their boney hips.
The music was ambient corner clutter to them, occupied with coupons,
canned ravioli, fiber content, and pizza rolls. I tried so not to give in
then I lost myself in the bridge, buying croissants, gourmet cheeses-
whirling in elegance and hat box memories I learned from old movies.
By the time the Beguine began, I was heart-clutched in tune with stars
and tropical splendor, singing alone, not sure it wasn’t all in my head.