Elegy for Hello

Because I am a Leo,
I take things personally,
as when the cashier at Walmart
starts running the pork loin
over the bar code reader
without saying hello, and so I
say hello, which seems like
an insult at this late point
in our otherwise silent
interaction, a hurtful hello.
A judgmental hello. I get
that ours is a meeting of
primarily commercial import,
but what’s a hello cost?
Then I think, maybe she’s just
done with hello. Maybe she’s
saving hello for her four-year old
whom she will pick up
from the daycare that costs
two week’s wages before
driving home to the water drip
around the living room
light fixture. On the other
hand, maybe she’s just roughing it
and after work she’ll drive
her Benz to Golden Eagle
where she’ll report on her day
whilst sipping a cocktail
with a slice of grapefruit
at the 9th hole clubhouse.
I worked the register
at Greer’s, served a tour or two
at Sac-N-Save, and unless I
was toting a leaning tower
of frozen pizzas from the walk-in
and couldn’t see you through
my frozen glasses, I
said hello. Likewise, I said
hello to the Walmart cashier
whose nametag read “smile
JOYCE Our People Make
the Difference!” and mine wasn’t
a hello that says, what the hell,
Joyce, can’t you see me
standing here with my unchecked
tater-tots being a human
amongst humans in a somewhat
dehumanizing warehouse
jam packed with jeans,
wrist watches, frozen hamburger,
televisions, live crabs? No,
mine was a friendly hello.
And Joyce looked up and smiled
and said hello back, and we
both relaxed a little, and I
quit trying to imagine her life
beyond the conveyer-belt
that inched my items toward her hand
until she ran them, one
by one, over the red laser.

Self Portrait at One Hundred Miles Per Hour

You need the camera moving at the same speed
as the ‘72 Dodge Duster driven by a guy named Pogo
so you can catch me laughing my idiot head off
while my buddy, Pop-tart, pukes into a Slurpee cup.

You need to drive the camera alongside us to see
how ambition runs sideways, let your shutter
click at the rate of hashmarks zipping beneath us
to understand how hilarious not dying can be.

And death is right beside us in a golden bondo’d
El Camino that means to nose ahead, so close
I can’t tell whose stereo rocks, “Will you meet me
in the middle, will you meet me in the air?”

The tractor trailer loaded with pulpwood can’t help
how fast we’re going, nor can the pine trees
flanking the straightaway before the horseshoe turn.
You need to crank the wind up, get a face full

of flash bulb ready for those who will survive.
Like a balloon at a porcupine dance, something pops
in the curve and we limp across the finish line.
Three tires, one rim, back to Ron Spear’s garage.