Market Basket

Most of my observations hit me in the grocery store.

I wonder if that means something?

If rather than the alignment of the stars or whatever color my chakra is that day,

it has something to do with how close the leeks are to the cilantro when I pass through the produce.

The baskets in my little Publix in Tech Square are never big enough.

They’re also uncomfortable.

I should get a cart, but lumbering through the grocery store as a single gay man with a buggy in tow just feels—too much.

So, as usual, I struggled through the store with my overburdened basket.

It’s quiet before the college students come back.

There was hardly anyone there today, but in a week, it’ll be a zoo.

Freshmen with parents buying all the yogurt—I mean, how much yogurt can one eat?

Blocking the aisles, no spatial awareness.

And yet it makes me smile.

They’re on their way.

You know?

They’ll kiss their parents goodbye, and they’re out there in the world.

In this big, beautiful place.

On their way to class,

to socials with new friends—

on the way to whoever it is they’re going to be—

maybe even an early middle-aged, single gay man, checking out with a heavy basket.

Being single has a rhythm to it.

You don’t realize it at first.

But it does.

Figuring out how to get all the bags with one arm, and lock and shut the car door—

My fob bit the dust years ago, but you make do.

You move to the beat of it all.

All life has that beat.

And we’re all a part of it.

It’s like there’s this big radio we’re all listening to in the back of my momma’s station wagon.

The windows are down

and the sunroof is open,

and Momma is singing with Madonna, “Hey Mr. DJ put a record on.”

And the volume’s cranked high

(Intentionally, so you can’t hear my sister incessantly screaming, “Mom!)

And the sky is summer blue.

And the wind blows our hair in our faces.

And my arm’s out the window like Daddy’s.

And we’re just—

dancin’ down the road.

And that’s the rhythm.

And the songs change,

and we move differently.

And we juggle all the grocery bags, and the champagne bag—she’s important—

and somehow manage to get in the elevator lobby and mash the up button.

And you turn the key with a heavy hand.

And push the door open with your dingy white converse.

And you drop the bags.

And you smile as the music plays on.