Food City

Couples share handles
on shopping carts, test produce

together: each squeezing
unripe fruit, an unspoken joke

lingering in the way he handles
the lemons. When he takes

her hand as though they’re dancing
as he moves past the artisanal breads,

she catches me watching them.
A forgivable sin to covet

your neighbor’s love, to be
among vegetables holding

asparagus and listening.
I don’t know these two,

but do: know they have a list
and will split up. He’ll glimpse

her walking the other direction
down the same aisle and won’t

call out. He’ll let her find him,
as if they were strangers, as if she

had forever to look and wanted to.

Hours

The between
I frequent—this small

and sincere hope
the snow melts

before it needs
to be shoveled:

the long driveway
and other ways

to separate: bliss
in columns of light:

yesterday’s dusting
spurred by today

and its gusts. Trust
the snow to take care

of itself: it will.