Last In Line

Last In Line

The horror of mild manners is this—

I never keep my place in line.

I was in a dream with a loaded

grocery cart in aisle one.

Twinkies were screaming

from the bottom, lamenting

the weight of cantaloupes.

Both the red and green grapes said they’d rot

in hell before giving up their skins.

The bread thought I’d tear its crusts off

and I swear the butter threatened

to melt right there if I didn’t

get them all bagged and home.

Fast.

But someone with a single item

kept standing in line directly behind me.

It was a test.

My pencil sharpened,

I’d chicken scratch my way

to nirvana.

I was always next.

It was never now.

I woke from the dream,

wanting to know if my turn ever came,

wanting to find where the bread crusts

are hiding..