With Apologies to the Girl behind the Counter

seven minutes after my car crash
with a lawyer and his attorney,
I arrive bruised and severely stoned
on shock. the idea of waiting in a line
transforms my best smile
into a grin with bite.

a man six people ahead of me talks
to his cell phone,
she's got about as much chance
as Indiana winning the Big Ten in football, ya know?
the rest of us squirm in front
of an array of such items of interest
as a 5 Hour Energy bar and walnut-raisin cookies.

no, you're right. maybe i'll tell her.
okay. we're still on for sunday, right?
he laughs. i got twenty on Dallas
and i don't lose, remember?

suddenly the woman in front of me
clears her throat,
are we examining each purchase today
or could we just ring the fucking things up?
i nod my head and look
at the girl behind the counter.
red hair, pale skin, a galaxy
of cinnamon freckles across her cheeks and arms.

she pretends not to hear the comments,
focusing instead on the debit card
currently in her hands..
that'll be twenty-two fifty-seven, she says.
slide-punch-sign.
now i'm four people away from escape.

and then it hits me,
sudden and disfiguring as a stroke:
i have no empathy. none.
all the muscles in my shoulders and back
tense because she is not perfect,
she is not blinding fast at her job,
and despite her nice features,
she’s not attractive
enough to distract me from my frustrations.

how are you today, sir?
nodding my head, i slide my purchase
across the counter and reach for my wallet.
i'm fine. just fine. how are you?
i'm fine. just fine. thank you.

seconds before i'm about to escape,
i hear a scratchy baritone clear his throat.
this girl on meds or something?
i stare into her eyes and see nothing.
here's your receipt.
thank you. have a nice day.
you too.

the exit doors buzz open
and the sunshine stings, instant and pure.
i've got to call my lawyer later
about the car crash with the lawyer,
but for now, i think about nothing
except cinnamon freckles,
cold eyes unblinking behind a counter.