The Man in the Grocery Store
by Maryfrances Wagner


He drops garlic in his basket,
a lemon he sniffs, two tomatoes.

He gathers up romaine, mushrooms,
fresh basil he inhales.

From behind, she adds the same
to her cart of parsley and peppers.

Before they corner the next aisle,
they add loaves of crusty bread.

They push past aisle three, neither
needing Cheer, Comet or a sponge.

Over cheeses, he asks about brie.
They talk smoothness for their first conversation.

At the deli counter he suggests briny olives.
Both choose a few slices of salami.

A neighbor wheels by and stops to tell her
about changing his major to chemistry.

The man wheels from sight. She finds
him two aisles over reading tuna labels.

She adds chopped clams to their carts,
drops in one of her red peppers, a wedge of romano.

They smile as he lingers over merlot.
Rounding the corner to the checkout,

they wave for the last time. At home she searches
through sacks, hoping for a chocolate mint,

a slice of torte, something he offered to cap off
their same dinner they’ll eat alone tonight





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