Sometimes, I think about
all the people in the grocery store.
It seems incredible
that each has his own life,
her own pile of problems.
I imagine that the man
with the gold chain and the buzz cut,
in a battered old tee shirt,
is shopping for a gig (he has two carts).
He has a three-year-old at home,
and wonders what happened
to weekends watching football.
And the woman with the short hair,
in pigtails--
she's trying to run a business--
maybe something craftsy,
like an Etsy store,
or maybe it's some MLM,
which she got caught up in,
and still believes will make her rich.
The teenage boy,
tall and still growing
with a tall fade that has
uneven razor lines.
He's on the phone.
Nothing exciting.
Probably asking his mama
if she wants beef or chicken.
Everyone thinks he should play basketball,
because he is so tall,
but really, his passion is chess.
I wonder if they see me,
squat and bespectacled,
furious at the lack of Diet Pepsi,
getting past a cold,
and think, "She is a poet."
Probably not.