Standing in line at the discount grocery store
watching a train pass by through the window—
box by box, those grizzly relics reminding us
we haven’t come as far as we think.
The cashier rings up our six bottles
of sleeping pills. We explain that sometimes
the store runs out, and we can’t afford
to run out at our house, not with
these minds that won’t stop.
The cashier, he tells us that it’s not
his job to ask what we’re going to do
with our groceries. He’s a nice guy,
quiet. We thank him and make jokes
about cooking the pills into God
only knows what kind of drug.
We leave the store and walk
into the rain, looking up for stars
we know won’t be there.