Thursday, May 14, 2020


Gradually, the agitated 
bustle of the grocery store 
gives way to a kind of 
quiet communion—
obscured faces and precious things 
lining aisles and display cases, 
boisterous kids and their 
watchful, tight-lipped parents 
contemplating both 
the senseless damnation 
of life in a pandemic and 
what makes sense for this week's lunch. 
Gradually, we become more 
than customers; we react as war generals, 
mature as statues, resolute as pack animals. 
We move as one finely-tuned implement 
of desire and love, humility 
and imperfection. 
In line, we watch one another 
shyly but without guile, 
blandly but courteously, the old 
and the young, the overly-
cautious and the overly exhausted—all
the representatives of this world, 
knowing we are here 
for the same reason; we are going 
home to different places; 
like never before, we are aware 
of the slender existence of one another.