Fleetwood Grocery

the butcher man's white coat, daubed over
with crimson, the knife slicing, again
and again the Sunday cuts, buy one

get one free, slapped onto styrofoam
and shrinkwrapped--to tap--or
not to tap--to secure his attention

that is the question as the eggs, the
milk, the bacon beckon--while the
manager ticks off the loaves on the

breadman's blue pallets, four, eight,
sixteen, checking off the numbers
and---love, love me do--breaking

in over the P.A. Do I love you?
I love you like onions as they go from
sharp to sweet, browning to translucence
in a cast iron pan--sliced sausages,
plum tomatoes, will finish the mix

thick papered bulletin board of promises:
I will clean your house
I will care for your child
I will do light housework
I will care for your elderly
I will serve at your party
I will teach you how to play the guitar

Marcella sits outside finishing
her cigarette break, smoke spiraling
as she uncovers the numbers with
a silver coin, scraping the grey
into slim sausages to be blown
into the wind

bakery--you have a call on line two--
as the cool slabs of cheese sit next
to the knishes, lovely comestibles waiting
for their devouring