(mill)

I watch people
begin to mill about
the store.
An older woman
looking for murder
mysteries.
A kid coughing.
A new clerk
gets trained
in the particulars
of table displays.
The music,
a little too Kenny G.
for my taste
gets louder.
Writing in my
journa, I begin
to cry.
My feet are unhapppy
in my socks.
In the background
I think I hear
Tibetan chanting.
I wonder whether
I should go home
to cry.
But wipe my eyes
& breathe instead.
I am tired this
morning and lack
the energy
for too much
propriety.
ending?

3/15/00