They walk alone, slowly,
pushing their carts,
at the A&P or King Kullen.
They stop and stare at Bon Ami,
Tender Vittles,
Mr. Clean and Bumble Bee.
But frozen food is too much
like winter for them.
They hold cans of Campbell soups
for the longest time
and put them down,
pick them up again,
one can in each hand,
weighing them, slowly, slowly,
shaking them, listening
to the noise inside,
as if voices would come their way.
At the end of the aisle,
they stop, a crossroad in their lives,
and check their shopping list,
like a map.
The supermarket is their promenade,
St. Peter’s Square, the Champs-Elysees,
Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame,
it’s their last parade,
as good as Fourth of July
or Saint Patrick’s Day.
It’s their garden of sin,
eclairs and whipped cream
and chocolate soufflé.
Like children, they stretch
for the highest shelves,
they lust where the roast chickens lay.
At the cash register
they want to tell their lives,
to show strangers
pictures of grandchildren far away.
They count their pennies and dimes,
slowly, slowly. And they smile.
But the cashier girls are waiting
for them to die.
Move over, granny,
make way,
shelf life is too precious,
move over,
make way.