They have moved the applesauce,
the woman says. It is not where you would expect to find it
Here with the other canned fruit.
She looks to be about my age.
In the super market, our carts do not touch
As we move slowly, carefully through the crowded aisles.
I continue my search for the apple butter and apple sauce: comfort foods.
I ask a dark-haired boy/man name Zeke how do I know which avocados are ripe.
The brown ones he says.
The same little girl with Shirley temple curls and peachy skin,
Passes me again, pushing a child-sized cart,
with her mother close beside her.
Our first encounter was when I first got out my car,
noticed her delicate hair, frame
And told her she must be seven.
She was. And her name was either Molly or Maggie.
Teachers know these things.
I thanked a youth named Joshua at the self-service checkout
Who helped me tally my groceries.
While selecting too many items, Never go shopping when you are hungry, they say,
I kept thinking that the madness and meanness are not here
In this American marketplace. Who here would agree
to send 800,000 young people back to Mexico?
©Dorothy Marie Rice 9/2/17
I am a retired teacher who imposes her will on her grandchildren to no avail. They keep their earplugs snug. I listen to music and try to make art. I try to see both sides of an issue, but sometimes it is quite hard to do. I wish that educated people would accept science.