The Cashier

Nov 16, 2005

I noticed first her eyes, her eyes
as though heaven's fire hadn't ashed her
soul, but nonetheless scarred,
like the old man waiting in line at the
grocery store,
pursing his lips as though I was all that
stood
between him and the tenuous salvation
offered by whole wheat bread and rich
chocolate ovaltine.

Though her eyes were green as iris leaves,
so green
you could smell chlorophyll hovering around,
photosynthesis awaiting her permission
before molting insipid cells into colors
unrecognizable save to the sun,
who has seen it all before, and knows,
canny, how it will carry on,
her skin held the desert in it's fragile
network of lines,
in it's taupey glow,
cheekbones high like dunes,
copper in flourescent lighting,
making me thirsty.

I wondered what secrets she held,
what cold wind traced through the peaks and
valleys of her soul.
What could she tell me of who she was;
what could she reveal,
were she strong enough to tell;
were I strong enough to understand.

But the reciept was in my hand,
and I was walking out the door,
propelled almost without thinking,
and the moment had passed like
the breath of a bat,
the droning swoosh of the automatic doors
compelling me to move on,
my muted, "Have a nice day" ringing
churlishly in my ears as I
found the keys to my car,
and drove under the sun,
who had seen it all before.