celebrity butts

you pick the short
line, setting your
little hand
carried plastic
basket down. you've
analyzed carefully
what's in
each of the carts
ahead of you.
this should be good.
everyone seems alert
and sober.
it's a self
service line
announcing every
thing you buy
in a robotic voice.
things are going well,
but the gypsy woman two
carts ahead of you
has several strange
vegetables that
will need to be
looked up and weighed.
you didn't even see them.
you mutter
something about
a mother under
your breath and
look at the other
lines, the long
lines. the light is
blinking at one because
someone has a bottle
of wine,
and someone else
has dropped a container
of bleach
at the other, making
everyone run
through the store like
wild animals.
you look down to
where the real live
checkers are,
teenagers in red aprons,
but people's
carts are overflowing
with groceries
down there
like it's thanksgiving.
you want to scream
as the woman
two carts up flips
through page after
page of plants and vegetables
looking for hers,
the ones she's taking
home to use in some
satanic ritual,
but you don't scream,
what's the point.
instead you pick up
a copy of the enquirer
hanging conveniently
on the rack in front
of you
and try to guess
which almost naked
fat butt belongs to
which celebrity.