catapult magazine

Grass

by Brett Alan Dewing

Through deadlit aisles
Past plots of pale produce
She squeaks the cart
It would, of course, have loose wheels
To say with candor what she feels
In her deadlit heart
Drones in peripheral
Scurry down their tunnels
Fools, and naive
An irreverent requiem—the world was cold
The audacity—too blind to hold
One that would grieve
In a tumult of self-importance
They fly down this sheltered lane
All ambulances
As if she were an obstacle to be overcome
As if a life had not been undone
They took their chances
To miss the bell’s toll
Somewhere, a checkout beeps
Down the tiles she’s crossed
She throws the lettuce into the cart
Lettuce—with both a head and a heart
To replace what she has lost