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Standing behind in the ten item line,
Lane one clearly marked, No WIC accepted,
You are hunched over your shopping cart
Your clothes wrinkled as if you took them from them bottom of the hamper
long day of work.
your eyes,
searching for your government aid.
Pink pieces of paper,
checks you can not fill out,
the lady behind the counter
fills in the amount,
exhaling, deliberately:
Next time please use lane 15
That is the line for THESE things.
A pest behind the cashier's ear,
Your face as pink as your subsidy.
Your milk and juice separated by the plastic divider,
like a wall of clear glass.
Your two children,
Separated by less than two years,
Tugging at your shirt,
Your son just off the sandlot,
Your daughter from the jungle gym
asking why you don't buy
all your stuff at once.
You shouldn't be in this line.
The line for using those things is over there.
The man behind me bellows.
My name is Billy, your son says, I
want to be a
Baseball player.
Sally is my sister,
I protect her while mom and dad are at work.
I am making funny fish faces with
little Billy,
Sally hiding behind your knees,
Pride, sinks like the burlap bag
tied to a thousand stones.
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