Clean, white,

I pick through,

fill my bag,

guess at the number.

I am one with the other shoppers,

all on our missions,

thinking only of food – our common ground.

We watch each other sort,

looking for the best,

and we are sisters, brothers.

When we leave the produce section

and drive our carts through the

store out beyond to our lives,

close our doors, shutter our souls,

pursue our many faceted passions.

I to my poetry,

they to their – what?

Who can know?

We are splintered, separate,

no longer akin.

by Cher Bibler