#2 Closing Time

The The lighting here perfectly complements
My three-day migraine -
Sour and relentless -
Your hand stutters against your thigh
Like the strip in Aisle Six
That just won't die.

And I am tired
The kind where you can't remember
Otherwise,
Winding ourselves in grasshopper
Elastic knots
Cup it in your hands
And feel it jump.

We're stumbling slightly,
Steering around families,
Perambulating around the elderly,
Looking for celery because
You read that thing today,
That thing about how
It's now seven fruit and veg,
Apparently.

And I'm edging along the ledge
Of your temper,
Hedging my bets,
Letting everything slide deep -
The snide remarks,
The silences,
The frowning at the order
In which I take the aisles.

I'm gliding in the  ice waters,
Caught, shaking, as you
Turn corners,
By ambush images,
Five-dimensional,
Of throat-tearing screams,
Here in the depths of Aisle Thirteen,
Or the careening crash
Of the trolley ending its
Arcing bid for freedom
In the shock of pickle jars,
And mustard,
And eight types of olive oil.

Or, more likely,
But still grazingly far,
The deafeningly quiet,
Breath-bound tread
Of me, unencumbered,
Lumbering over linoleum
And tarmac,
And concrete,
And all the silent streets beyond.

In the final approach
You nudge me, reunited,
Point.
I frown-smile, shake my head,
Keep pushing on to milk
"But…"
"No, thank you, not tonight."

Checkout-bound,
We lock eyes,
And I surmise
Your glare's about me
Daring not to buy for you
Vicariously,
Victory of nothingness
Sullied in every breath
Because you still ache,
Sin in everything but deed,
Undone daily by your
Greed for oblivion.

And I…
Can only carry everything
And drive us home.