by Dianne Silvestri
Recovered enough to shop for groceries,
I heap my carriage with bulging bags
and surge toward the highlight of the trip
that follows off-loading bounty to my car
and coaxing the empty cart through rigors
across the asphalt to the return stall.
It is there I plunge it clattering to collide
into the queue, thrust it through the back
of the closest basket, then ram the two
to engage some strays, grating cacophony
in assembling snugly those flung pell-mell
by customers who don’t appreciate this therapy.
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