Gula
She stood behind me in the checkout queue
last Saturday. She mentally weighed in
on items in my shopping cart. I knew
her thoughts: It’s no small wonder she’s not thin
like me. Look at that junk food - cookies, chips,
that pint of Häagen-Dazs, those salted nuts . . .
She sized me up and down from head to hips
and measured both our budgets and our butts.
Clairvoyant she was not. Had she but seen
as with the scanner’s unassuming eye,
she might have figured out a lifetime lean
and hard. Before I wheeled my week’s supply
of relish out into the parking lot,
I whispered, Lady, this is all I’ve got.
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