Montserrat

the woman checking my groceries
is named Montserrat
she speaks with an accent that I cannot place
she is mature and beautiful in a plain way
she passes my groceries over the scanner
and I watch her rumpled hands touch the
lettuce and grain of my life
I want to speak,
To tell her that her name is a poem
wrapped in a rhapsody
but I don't
I want these delicious thoughts for myself
Montserrat
I know only her name
and that is all I know of anyone

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