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I smile at the produce man
patting oranges back in place,
brush against him as he waters Romaine
in his long, green apron
and counts garlic roses
in their bed of straw.

I say hello to the stock boy
on his knees in tight jeans
stacking canned peas
in a tin pyramid.

I unbutton my purse for the butcher
who wraps quivering hearts of beef
tenderly as glass.
His lug soles track
blood on white bolts of paper.
I think of the first time.

I give the clerk my name and number.
He files my check in the drawer.
Did our eyes meet? If he only knew
how much I wish he'd call,
or the stock boy, the produce man
especially the butcher.

      — Teresa White

Hear Teresa White read 'Supermarket Slut'