Fred Aiken Writing

the great moment of converging energy streaking through the self-checkout lane

as some woman pockmarked with a skin rash across her check

and who probably listens reminiscently to Bill Haley and His Comets and Buddy Holly to

remember a time when she was still loved unconditionally by someone, anyone, out there in the void

take a ticket, please, and don’t lose it, or you’ll lose your place in

an endless line, processing each item of yours and rashy woman’s body

to ensure the tone and timbre of your body tones

isn’t too loud, or offends too many people, less someone complains,

I kinda hope they complain,

so I can be taken out of here and pass the time with listening to Fleetwood Mac and

studying how many versions of the Sicilian can make me look like

I, you, and rashy woman knows what we’re doing