Costco

Tense, all corrals

and staff shouting 

what’s here 

and what’s not 

where we’re amassed

at the way in, no faces, 

just eyes 

among eyes, foci 

and carts, not me, 

just Greg who needs 

spring mix, eggs, 

and dryer sheets, metal bent 

at the bridge of the nose 

to hold the illusion 

of what might 

still get through

or might not, 

it’s unclear today 

among rows of salt, 

bread, empty shelves, 

and dead ends 

everywhere

like a video game glitching

around where the next level

might take 

or leave us,

a blocked entrance,

or an exit, both brimming 

with the glare 

of the day outside,

March’s light breaking 

between each cart

we wipe clean

and the masks 

on the faces of others 

on their way out.