by Stephen Powers

Now terrorists can blow up airplanes with regular-size deodorant, shaving cream, and toothpaste, which requires a crawl through a
        traffic jam
of deluxe-cab pick-ups to the local big-box store for travel-size
        ones.
In the parking lot a black Lincoln is in the way, waiting for
a handicapped spot occupied by a yellow Volkswagen convertible. Lincoln thinks Volkswagen is backing out, but the top just goes up and down, up and down. Dixie horns toot.
Middle fingers salute from rolled-down windows.
Inside, rednecks and Baptists all over. The sheriff’s wife,
her wig crooked, abandons her cart and purse in the aisle to read moisturizer labels. “Bless your heart,” she says.
Girls cutting school flip through Hannah Montana posters.
Prefer Miley’s Aunt Dolly myself.
At the self checkout I push the Spanish button, for fun.
A big & jiggly jellyroll man wearing a greasy trucker cap coasts his
        electric
cart to a stop. He says I should learn English or get
the hell out of the country. His sweat pants and flannel shirt
haven’t been off him in days. You have no idea how much I hate dirty white socks and fat ankles. I tell him to piss off in German.

STEPHEN ROGER POWERS was born in Madison, WI, and now
lives in Georgia, where he enjoys the beaches of Tybee Island. Every year he goes to Dolly Parton’s annual parade in Pigeon Forge, but he had to miss it this year because he was in India instead. The Follower’s Tale, his first book, was published by Salmon Poetry last year.