you pick the shortest line
nothing but a bag of kitty litter
hefted on your shoulder
you remember
that you need toilet paper
but remind yourself
that you are meeting your girl
for lunch and
payday margaritas
when suddenly
you realize the guy in front of you
is wearing the same shirt as you are
you tap him
& say hey man
I dig your shirt
he’s surprised
says he got it for $4
at goodwill
you say you got yours
at wal-mart
years ago
he says
it’s a comfortable shirt
you agree
and he faces forward
and continues
to wait
you begin to think
his shirt is cooler–
you’ve always been
a bit ashamed
that you got it
at wal-mart
you begin to wonder if maybe
you’ve spoiled it a bit for him, too
just a bit
you check out the
fully cooked rotisserie chickens
under the heat lamps
you check out the
fatty cellulite on Britney Speare’s ass
on the cover of a tabloid
the line hasn’t moved
you shift the bag of litter
f/one shoulder to the other
the sound system plays out
some female-dance/pop version
of the song Heaven
& you know
there is a whole generation now
that doesn’t know
that it’s really just a
re-cycled 80's
Brian Adams hit
you reconsider
the cooked chickens
& glance at your watch