After pulling a score from the dumpster
behind Krogers I stroll through
sliding doors with egg-caked hands.
The greeter greets me as I pass. I scan
the aisles like a surgeon studying the mint
versions of organs she cuts out
of men. The dented cans of black beans,
undented, would have cost me
ten bucks. The unexpired cartons of cream:
another twenty. I smile at the math.
For the dark roast alone I’d have forked over
forty-seven. For eight uncracked eggs
out of a dozen: about a buck-eleven.
Might as well be money I found.
Might as well be money I made.
By the time I get to the frozen foods
I’m up two hundred. Markdown meats
and I’m up three. In the bathroom
I lock the door behind me and twist
on the tap. As the yellow crust peels
off my hands the mirror clouds over
with steam. I finger the total
where my face used to be.