grocery run

Tuesday evening, the sky is orange

like a California poppy. 

You slide your quarter through the slim slot to release

the last cart from the corral,

its left wheel squeaking.

You step through the entryway

and let the smell

of sweet peppers and limes greet you.

You toss 3 avocados into an empty cardboard box

you found on the fruit shelf,

reassured by each gentle thud

that they made it in.

You pick up the rest of the ingredients

for Ezra’s lunch-

each item fitting in

with your mental game of tetris,

just like the silver shoehorn on your dresser

fits into your faux leather flats.

Your total is $72.19.

You walk back to the car,

reverse out of the second spot

from the end

and make the 13 minute drive home,

Green Day’s “21 Guns” playing on the radio.

This is your routine.

You think of swerving your car

into the white wall along

the onramp to the highway,

but figure the mess would only cause

traffic, and you don’t know how

you’d cover the cost of damages

or who would prepare

Ezra’s lunch for school tomorrow.

You see it in your 4 year old son

who draws murals on your wall at night,

and also in your morning parfaits

of Greek yogurt

and cut up strawberries.

When the ancient

car wash attendant tells you

your hair looks beautiful that day,

even though you haven't washed it

and your roots are grown out.

You pull into the driveway

and begin removing bags,

full to the brim, heavy on your arm.

You shut the trunk with

your right shoulder

and look up to see

two faces staring

out of the second floor window,

waiting for you to come home.

The weight you're carrying

creates impressions on your skin,

but nothing falls,

the groceries are safe.

The door to the house is open

for you.