She brushed against me
in the cereal aisle
distracted by the corn flake bargains.
At the vegetable bins
she turned, and as our eyes met,
she waved at me
with a cucumber in her hand.
In the frozen food section, a cold canyon
between mounds of green vegetables
and a geologic stack of pizzas,
her warmth lingered a few beats
close by my side,
our cart handles touching.
Checking out, I wondered,
does she like me?
Or is this a courtesy call
from an old man’s imagination?
“I write to find common voices to sing with.” – the writer