you looked like hell

there you were
in the produce department
with your whole damned family

you looked like hell
like your father

a slow rolling
upper middle class trojan horse
of squeezed melons
screaming children
and dropped tomatoes

i hid behind a barrel stacked display
of artichoke and avocado
grateful for the wine in my shopping basket
and my ability to dodge bullets
in the supermarket

willing to belly crawl through the gluten free cereal aisle to remain unseen

holy shit
it seems
we were just nervously sweating
and fondling each other
in retractable bleachers
at homecoming
a week ago

how glad i am
to be the sin of your early life

not to have ended up your wife

mitigating
snotty mittens
soccer mud
and church socials
wearing lines on her face
from knowing her place

and the lovely way
she must coordinate
with your other
kitchen appliances