Saturday, January 31, 2009

poem by Denise C. Banker

In the Produce Aisle

a woman's grapes,
unbeknownst to her, 
through the wire squares
of her grocery basket,
and the wobbly wheels 
of the cart a man pushes
up behind her
crush them,
as though deliberate. 
This wouldn't happen
with plums and peaches
too big to slip between
the cage-like, 
crisscross bindings. 

Denise Banker