None of us were above Walmart.
That’s how we knew it was real.
Our fluorescent love. Our automatic
door love. Love under a giant sign
the color of hearts and blood. We went in
for batteries and came out with
socks, cereal, a shower curtain,
two candles smelling like burnt hair.
Bottled beverages with made-up flavors.
Midnight linen. Mountain whisper. I mean,
okay. You pushed the cart with
the bad wheels and I said this is probably
what marriage looks like, broken yet still strong.
In seasonal they already had plastic pumpkins out
although it was July, which still felt a little
chilly at night. Every purchase is part
show-off, part bad timing. You held
up a waffle maker like a wedding
proposal. I said don’t you dare unless
you mean it. We laughed in
that stupid way couples do
when they are briefly unbearable to
everyone else on earth. At checkout
the cashier looked exhausted enough,
like a statue of some retired cupid.
Behind her, the sky was the bruised blue
of our cheap denim. We put our bags in
the trunk and kissed beside the
cart return, the most American chapel
we could manifest. Nothing fancy.
Nothing sacred except this: you, me,
a receipt long as a scarf,
and some midnight linens waiting
to lure us out of bed in the morning.