come to the grocery with me

I don’t like when my husband

smokes cigars in my car,

but I let him. If AI is just data

collected from people

all over the world,

is befriending ChatGPT

like being friends with everyone?

The question I ask,

reaching into a box

below the bananas

for the green ones

I like best. I have to touch

every grapefruit, make sure

I get the most perfect one.

I assert dominance

by taking produce bags

closer to someone else.

We are accosted by a persistent

employee of some other Walmart

who follows us for ten minutes.

We find the gravy anyway.

I like to get things like

cookie dough ice cream

and birthday cake muffins—

two desserts in one.

I suggest we get two things of ramen,

but my husband slips six in the cart

as a man negotiates with a small

terrorist he calls Boo Boo

in a princess dress. I don’t mind.

At my best, I am a highchair tyrant too.

I want what I want when I want it.

See, I broke my jar

of everything bagel seasoning.

It will be five more weeks before I put

a replacement on the grocery list.

My husband and I wage a small

battle of wills over grape jelly.

He says the squeeze bottle is easier;

I say the big jar is cheaper.

We get both because that resolves the issue

(which does not make sense,

but we are both happy).

People think my husband is my father

so much that even I start to see it.

As the cashier bags the groceries

and I put them in the cart,

I always open the next bag

to save her one little step.

When my husband’s finger

hits three out of five stars

when the tiny screen asks,

he thinks that’s average,

but I would never mark

less than four.

We go home and I put away the groceries.

At 11 a.m., it will be the hardest part

of my day. Then I’ll make biscuits and gravy

from scratch, eat, and take a nap in the chair

as a rerun of Jeopardy! plays.