in my usual hurry
to get the shopping done
and get the hell out.
Someone less able than me,
self-destructive I guessed
in my least charitable way.
Someone stuffing greasy chips
into his or her face,
stuffing his or her beeping conveyance
with ever more bags of cheap deadly calories,
or shooting the shit
with another witless old fart,
both oblivious to me
as they block the aisle
in their GOD DAMNED ENTITLEMENT!
I round the corner and there he is.
Yes, a he,
a gaunt, tall ancient he.
Enormous bearded head,
white hair on top
and under chin,
milky eyes rolled inward,
parchment lips agape.
The head is erect,
but dead.
The old man is dead,
body propped in its cart
like the dead El Cid
strapped on his horse by Jimena
to save Valencia,
and yet...
Somehow the cart moves,
small, herky jerky moves,
forward and back,
and around,
this way and that,
beep beep beep,
as if its dead commander
still tries to drive.
I walk carefully around
this curious grotesque
to find the spices
and then the beans.
A couple more aisles
I must traverse
before I can leave
this crowded, cursed place.
Several more times
I meet the dead shopper.
Is he following me
or what the hell?
Each time we pass
I study him harder,
with quick glances
to catch a vital sign.
I wonder why he's alone.
If he's dead, how are the purchases
filling his cart?
A respect for him sprouts in my head.
There's no fear in his face,
nor defeat in his frame.
He's not dead but he's close
and it frightens him not.
He's an old sea captain I begin to think,
a mariner once,
an adventurous man,
who thrived on the challenge,
the danger of imminent
untimely death.
He's Eric the Red
returned from the dead.
He's Ahab and Blackbeard,
Morgan and Kidd,
the spirits of skippers
who handled the helm,
whose lives became legend
inspiring us still.
And that's when I saw her,
as I pieced it together,
this towering figure
nearing death in his cart,
refusing surrender
despite all the odds
overwhelming his body,
every breath that he took.
She stood there behind him,
far enough back so I couldn't be sure
she was with him at all.
She looked lost,
nearly helpless,
bent and frail thin.
I studied her face,
but like his it was closed
to strangers it seemed.
She was looking at something
only she seemed to see.
I walked on past her,
wondering anew,
and that's when I heard it:
a murmuring sound.
It was her or him or both in tune.
I turned to look and sure enough,
she'd moved closer to him and was leaning in,
and I wondered if I could tell by the voice
or the voices if two,
what clue I could take from the tones I might hear.
Does she know this old warrior,
does he know her, too?
Would I hear impatience or grumble or scorn?
Would they speak at all, would their faces reveal?
I saw the cart move.
It turned toward the woman
and the old captain's spirit
I could see had joined hers.
There was movement, animation
in that bearded large face.
Her body was bobbing a little with life,
and I heard it then, the sound unexpected.
It was thin, it was fragile, but it held its own.
It chased away dread, frustration and worse.
Their doom imminent, the bodies for sure,
but their spirits were stronger than ever, I knew
when I heard it from her,
her giggle.
Matt Paust
