Grocery

The bell rang abruptly as an
old man pushed through the rigid door.
He toyed with the jingles in his right jacket pocket,
his left hand wore two gloves,
the holes exposed themselves while
he studied the price tags,
the old fashion Coca-Cola, dollar a can
twelve cotton-like slices, two dollars fifty a loaf
perhaps some Wrigley’s to chew away his hunger
or just a pack of Reds to blow reality into a smoky
blur.

He dragged his feet to the cashier behind glass,
laid out with his wrinkled, shaking right hand
eleven crumpled Washington’s, five pennies,
“In God We Trust,” and he strode out
choking the neck of a brown paper bag.