Aisle 3 Poem by Bert Bell

she disquiets
me with the imagined
tenderness
of an ever so faint smile
as I squeeze
the charmin
with one hand
and attempt to maneuver
my squeaky-wheeled
shopping cart out of her
way with the other.

I hope she doesn't
engage me—
I am married
after all, and even
if I weren't,
she's far too young-
to be congruous
with a man
of my delusions—
she can't be a day over
sixty, whatever would
we talk about?

our eyes
don't meet, but
I sense she'd
like them to, so I look
the other way,
thinking all the while,
what a bold hussy,
the nerve of her!
oh well, this
is a free country,
I suppose... she is
entitled
to her fantasies.