where I’ve come to buy an ink cartridge and a ream
of 30% recycled printer paper, where the woman
in front has offered me her spot in line since
she’s returning a large order, and I accept, and
how standing here, I see them, and because
lunch hour is overdue, it’s no surprise I’d be lured
to the plastic package of miniature flat dark
chocolate nonpareils sprinkled with white dots
of sugar, a staple at the movies in the ‘50s, and on
my grandmother’s mantel at Christmastime, lured
with anticipation for that warm bitter melt in my
mouth, and between my teeth the hard bites of
sweet bits — so sweet I laugh out loud as I pick
them up, knowing they’ll go home with me, and
the woman in line who offered me her spot says
she loves to eat them with popcorn, like she did
as a kid at the movies, so silly our sudden connection
over confection, so silly that only this morning I had
tossed in bed fretting about everything from global
warming to the bad haircut I paid too much money
for yesterday, plus the tip.
