He’s here.
In my aisle.
Wearing Chuck Taylor’s
and a button down blue shirt,
the collar slightly raised.
His knees are bent
ready to support the box in his hands
or perhaps my weight as my legs jello.
Above, soft 80s rock music
sweeps me to a world where
rules don’t make sense.
His brown eyes shift.
I lean into bagged jelly beans.
Oh turn away,
this world has rules, barriers
that mustn’t be crossed.
I pick up a colored bag.
His hands glide over empty
shelves, brushing dust away.
He stands, hurrying to answer
those that call
from speakers above.
A faint brush of arms.
A second of connection.
From the shelf I pull a velvet heart.
Clutching the box to my chest
I step to the back of his line.
His line is long,
everyone wants to hear his voice.
To see his smile.
The elbow with the basket
filled with cat food swishes
her skirt as he chuckles in response.
I wait.
He’s smiling at me.
I step to his counter,
my eyes on my hands.
My hands on the velvet.
He’s speaking.
I’m nodding.
I’m leaving the counter,
a single heart in my plastic bag,
as he’s whistling along,
with the radio.
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