Cranberries and Troy

Rite Aid

The woman stumbles circles

around her shopping cart.

She is excited to use her

new mop in the group home.

“I used to clean things, too.”

Is the only courage I can muster.

And then I lie.

“I’m an out-of-work exorcist. No

money in demon hunting

these days.”

She knocks her cart

over, says she recognizes me.

Then begins to yell at the cashier

about how I stole her baby.

I turn sideways and stare at the tattoo

growing out of the assistant manager’s

sleeve. I hate being locked into

a story, but I can’t stop now.

“I need work,” I say.

“Do you have any possessed customers or

employees?

I discount for group rates.”

He calls me a faggot, so

I leave.

I should stop pretending

everyone is as bored as I am.