the whipped cream aisle

I roll the cart through the fruit
and vegetable section
of the grocery store.

I stare at the oranges. I don't think
I've bought an orange
in five years.

or a pear, or pineapple, maybe never.

but I like to look at the colors
and how everything is
so neatly stacked

in rows, in pyramids. I like how
the apples
shine, the grapes glow under
the fluorescent lights.

so many bananas, where do they all
come from.
who picked them?

there are the peaches, as fuzzy as
the first one I remembered
eating as a child.
biting into its sweet slush
as the skin tickled my lips
and tongue.

I circle the melons. the lopes.
the berries one more time before
moving on and taking a small basket
of strawberries.

I head to the whipped cream aisle,
I think the can she bought me
once for a Saturday night, may
be dried up now.