Pit Stop.


Friday, October 26, 2012 at 3:21pm ·

*   *    *    *   * *   *       *   *

stars freckle the sky

cars

mark the asphalt

like the last pawns in a checkmate

and a single girl

well into middle age

enters the grocery

at 12:33 am

for cans of premium white chicken meat

kalamata olives

gluten-free cookies, on sale,

and some fellowship

with the three night-shift boys.

. . . .

one, an obese genius with weakening knees,

his forearms cat-scratched

by the protruding springs of a futile mattress

another darting about

surfing artfully the crest of a B-12/caffeine cocktail

and the third

manning the check out

with his gift for manic conversation

and typing the worn-out card numbers

into the machine

correctly the first time.

. . . .

the single girl remembers

the year she was fourteen and a half

shopping with her mother

in mock suede fringed jacket

curly perm

and John Lennon granny glasses

the stock boy

chestnut brown hair

combed over his twinkly eyes

full lips like Uncle Tom’s

tight, brown polyester slacks

and white apron

winking at her through the shelves.

. . . .

he’d been promoted to manager

his nephew, the math teacher, said and,

newly-retired,

had gone into the hospital for a medical test

where he died

on the table.

.

.

.

© Ruth Ann Scanzillo

10/26/12

all rights reserved. Thanks.

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