rock star

the clerk at the local
market
is a rock star.
his hair braided and long,
blonde
and down around his shoulders.
it hangs
in front of his
red vest hiding
his name plate.
his soft blue eyes seem shy,
but I doubt it.
I imagine at night
he's on stage,
singing,
playing his guitar,
kneeling in the lights
as young girls
scream his name.
bare chested and bold,
as he strums
and wails out his song.
I want to tell him that I
too once
had hair like that,
that long, that scraggily
and blonde,
but I don't, I think better
of it, instead
I take out my coupons then
push my eggs
and bacon,
my two percent milk,
apple juice
and prunes along the belt.