She sidles up beside me
At the vegetable section.
They are washed, naked, smooth and ripe.
I am choosing what I like
– Not too long, not too stubby,
Certainly not broken.
Some are very long indeed,
Difficult to fit into
These skinny supermarket bags.
She arrives, but doesn’t linger
And, as our fingers nearly touch
In that almost intimate transaction,
We don’t make eye contact or talk
About the harvest or the weather, even,
As we delve and pilfer from that bright, slippery pile.
She doesn’t select the best, I know,
But hurries to the salad packs;
Leaves me in the aisle alone with all those tasty roots.
Copyright © Clive Donovan 2018