the store always has
temperature controlled air
by rusting window units
with decade old music stale
aisles of neatly placed packaged items
in a low ceiling with dull fluorescents
noon sun pouring through tall windows
glaring off the warped flooring

that’s when I forget the year
and start to believe that if I could
just stay
standing at the deli counter
comparing cellophane wrapped foods
made by the frowning woman
in a white apron
that time will cease
beyond those glass doors
powered by tired whining auto motors
that it is all just an empty parking lot
stretching infinitely
disappearing in the wavering heat