for Seamus Heaney a box of coconut water two cans of coconut milk so many looking for help some people care when a poet dies a poem is a conscience a report card, a confession: today my lies were a motor that spun the Earth how can you get truth from a hill when I am the continent that drifts? how can I taste what I’m mourning when soon everything will be salt from the sea? —8/30/13, Register 6 1 PM—5:15 p.m.
I want to grow old with you.
So old we pad through the supermarket
using the shopping cart as a cane that steadies us.
I’ll wait at register two in my green sweater
with threadbare elbows, smiling
because you’ve forgotten the bag of day-old pastries.
The cashier will tell me a joke about barbers as I wait.
He repeats the first line three times
but the only word I understand is barber.
Over the years we’ve caught inklings
of our shrinking frames and hunched spines.
You’re a little confused
looking for me at the wrong register with a bag
of almost-stale croissants clenched in your hand.
The first time I held your hand it felt enormous in my own.
Sasquatch, I teased you, a million years ago.
Over here, I yell, but not in a mad way.
You have a bright yellow pin on your coat that says, Shalom!
Senior Discount, you say.
But the cashier already knows us.
We’re everyone’s favorite customers.