by Allison Thorpe
 

I don’t think she meant to do it
 

Maybe she knew my mind
was thinking about the man in Aisle 3
who had asked me about whole wheat pasta
and I was thinking about the way
his t-shirt rode over his huggable shoulders
or the way his ass looked in blue jeans
so fine walking away
and how I wished we could have
 

WHAM
her cart hit mine
 

Smaller than I had imagined
she bowed her head in apology
bright eyes blessing mine
without judgment:
the bottles of wine in my basket
the cans of whipped cream
I keep just in case
my fingers gripping
the bag of frozen strawberries
 

I abandoned my cart
of carnal luxuries
as if I didn’t own it
then turned around and put
every single item back on the shelf
 

the bag of melting strawberries
leaking its sweet sticky red
onto my righteous hands

[More poems by Allison Thorpe]