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