Groceries

The first Monday of October, and I
sit on a bench at a bus stop scribbling
a list of groceries—clouds
patch the sky like paper
mache—sun busts in and out, warms me
bipolarly, to the wind—shade
and shine juxtapose my neck; an army
jacket failing to protect my jeans
from rainwater beaded like bullets
on the bench at the bus stop, where I sit
thinking of plumerias—her favorite flower
HER—if we had a house I’d fill it
full—plumerias from the ceiling, pots
posted in the bathroom, edging
the porcelain tub, all assortments—
orange petals in the kitchen for citrus
tang, and red in the bedroom
like our bedsheets, our bondage
and yellow on our doorstep
for that country-cottage look—
oh! how she loves plumerias, but I
sit on a bench at a bus stop,
the first Monday of October, scribbling
a list of groceries while tracing an edge
of my mother's food stamps
card in my jean pocket
with an outstretched finger.