eighty eight

in her white
blood smeared smock.
her hair matted down by
a black net, the short
boned woman
calls your number.
thin or regular she asks
of your ham
in her rough voice,
taste, do you want
a taste, she says
holding out a sliver
of pink marbled
meat over the counter
that she can barely
reach. you take
it from her plastic
gloved hand and eat
it. pound,
she says, did you say
a pound, nodding
as you nod yes.
cheese? provolone?
swiss? provolone
is on sale.
give me a half you
tell her. she weighs
your slices then wraps
and stamps, folds.
she slides the packages
into your
hand. enjoy she says.
eighty-nine she yells
out, then eighty-nine
again.