outside.
old ruth gregson sits behind the greasy register,
half-asleep.
shelves of bottled beans,
peanut butter and
grey mayonaise.
aha. tomato sauce.
kaching, ding.
"seventy-six cents."
beef jerky twitches on the counter.
a dollar bill unfolds,
extends its vehicle and
crawls into waiting hand.
kaching.
one-half smile.
nod.
blink twice.
door hinges grouse,
greaseless.
cold nose,
no moon and
a man in checkered red.
"wha chu lookin et, bich?"
sore eyes-
eyes like a waterfall sounds.
"nothin? you sayin im nothin?"
eyes like dead mice.
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