Yesterday at the Supermarket

Yesterday at the supermarket,

a giant, filthy man

came rolling up to my queue,

stinking to the high heavens.

He wore a dirty tarpaulin trench coat,

smelling like an un-aired tent,

like he’d just strolled down

some clay caked crags,

like he’d walked off

a hundred years of dust and loneliness

and stumbled,

as if by accident,

upon this strange, pristine place.

The creases of his journey worn face

were filled in with salt

from tears and years and oceans

that had swelled over him.

His scorched face,

like the cracked leather on a

car seat where the sun always touches,

grinned at me

without sin or virtue,

just a face out of some

past saga,

a Don Quixote for this manicured world.

He wore his dilapidated life

on torn cuffs.

And I gawped at the back

of my spick-and-span

pale white hands.

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