How It Goes

by Mary Bass Poulin

The grocery cart is not too full,
and you’ve got twenty minutes—
time to fit in this last errand
and get to the lunch meeting.  But,
a man ahead of you needs a price check,
and the elderly woman
right in front has divided her purchases
for separate payments.  Then
you realize she’s in this line
because she knows the young cashier,
and they have a LOT to talk about.
So you are privy to a conversation
you have no right, nor desire—

I was in court yesterday and got full custody.
He’s only seen her twice, owes a year in support.
Now, no one can take her away!

The two exchange more as the girl rings up
the next cluster of items.         Cluster fuck,
is what you’re thinking about
in its beautifully figurative language:
the crazy convolution of people
tripping over one another’s lives,
trying desperately to maintain
a course of sanity through challenges
of being poked, prodded, and slapped.
And you ponder the literal,
how crazy that would be!  You think,
we’re all just bumping into each other,
balls and posts in a pinball game,
or, like we’re hip-checking the machine,
waiting for the ball to drop
while we flap our paddles anxiously
over and over and over, like a bird
lifting off into the air of freedom,
hoping to smack that ball back up
to the dinger of points, and then,
when you arrive at the restaurant
seconds ahead of your partner, he says,
Sorry, I was running late.