I may be a poet and you don’t even know it!

In an effort to keep it real and expand my horizons, I’ve decided to venture forth into the uncharted corners of the literary world and explore some strange and new grounds. The characters are real, the emotions are real, and the rhymes are shaky at best – apparently you don’t really even need them in modern poetry anyways!

So here’s my latest creation – hope all of you peeps and chickies out there dig it…

The Disgruntled Stranger
by: Scott Sevener

It was an evening unlike any other,
the stars twinkling behind a moonlight sky
with a beautiful iridescence that might’ve mattered
had the roof been ripped off by a hurricane or something.

I was out of celery, and I really like celery.
So I came to your store
…ok, not technically your store, but you were working there at the time…
and it seemed only logical that everything would work out for the best.

Sometimes logic doesn’t always apply when you’re dealing with jerks.

As often it seems,
I needed a few other items as well…
orange juice
and some of those little cocktail weenies that are endorsed by Al from Home Improvement.

Aren’t those just delicious?!

I approached the checkout line, my arms full of much more than the celery that I originally came for.
I always forget to grab one of those little baskets, and this is my punishment.

Your gaze is like that of an intoxicated water buffalo,
almost as if you spent your last break smoking cheap grass out behind the dumpster.
And I get the feeling that your lack of enthusiasm about my purchases at this store
might be lessened considerably if you were actually conscious to witness the act.
I can almost taste the marijuana from where I’m standing.

But I say nothing as you fumble with each item to find the barcode, forgetting that I’m going to want to actually eat this stuff later.
I say nothing as you carry on with the cashier in the next lane about “where you’ll be partying when you get out of this hell hole in a couple of hours.”
And I say nothing as you proceed to bag each of my four, relatively small items in individual bags.

My total stutters from your lips as if you’re a baby just trying to speak for the first time…
Is your job really this difficult???
As I hand you a wad of bills from my wallet, your glare implies that I might as well have given you a handful of pennies…or even pebbles from the parking lot.
Time lapses and I swear I see my life flash before my eyes as you calculate the $2.23 change that I have coming.

You hand me $1.67, with a look that screams the war-cry of a rebelious youth,
but this time I’m not going to let it slide.

Fucking kids are gonna have to learn sometime…

I take my receipt and proceed to the nearest manager,
explaining that I’m still fifty-six cents short and that one of his cashiers is high as a kite.
We return to your lair and the tall, pasty general, power-tie and all, tells you to finish giving me my change.
I can feel the “fuck-you” in your eyes, as I grin from ear to ear and place the coins in my pocket.

Turning to leave, I know that you won’t be far behind me.
I might feel bad about costing you your job, but you didn’t really even like it anyways.
And besides, I am the customer…and the customer is always right.

As I leave your store, I look up to see that the sky truly does look beautiful tonight.
I wonder if you will notice this when you pass through these same doors.

Oh well – tonight will be a great tonight for some celery!


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