The old man accosted my wife and me as we crossed the Whole Foods parking lot.
Two women engaged in an act of sedition.
Curry and cumin, salmon, an avocado, perhaps an organic apple.
How revolutionary can a turnip be? A Brussels sprout? Damn immigrants.
“She’s going to jail” he hisses,
The expiration nearly knocking over his frail, pale frame.
I’ve never met him, of course, but even I can tell
He is not the person he was at 20 or 40 or 60.
He clings to the cart for stability, his mind reaching for a similar solid thing.
I could push him over with my response,
Could wither him the rest of the way.
“I hope not” is all I say.
Why hasten him to the grave he can already see in front of him?
Whatever the consequences of this week, he will not live to see them.