What my brain writes at 5:45 in the morning:
Why do these people soak me in their intimacy?
I'm just a cashier, do I need to hear the bass
of your bedroom voice warbled through phone space,
finding a way to thump on my ear drums?
What is it about groceries that makes a woman
slide her hand into the back of her husband's pants?
Maybe we aren't selling groceries at all.
They say oysters are an aphrodisiac. If so,
we keep sex vacuum-sealed in seafood, or saucy
in white wine and garlic on aisle eight.
And maybe what I'm ringing isn't noise
but the de-evolution of "Slow Jams".
Baby, I've moved beyond the register
of voyeurism. No checks, no balances,
I wanna let go and hold you light
like an artichoke, careful like a glass
bottle of IBC. Me and this store,
we're the creators of attraction,
we've got something to sell--step up.
Move quick, you're in the express lane now.
This is where our transaction ends.
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