After the pandemic,
among people again,
with measured steps
I proceed
up the aisle.
Between masses
of fresh flowers,
honey scent
of beeswax candles
beyond the squeaking noises
of irritable children
held in place
by a parental gaze.
Tinny music sifts down
from overhead speakers.
It’s a dream I’ve had
now finally I’m back,
here, breathless
pushing
the red grocery cart
with a wobbly wheel
toward the checkout line.
Ann Randlette is trying to maintain some sanity in insane times. Wherever she goes, she brings a rock back, not necessarily because it’s pretty but because it endures. She writes poetry so some words will outlast her existence in the mind of someone, somewhere.