MORIAH HAMPTON

 Empty

at the nearest Hannaford on Wolf Road
adding a gallon of milk
to the loaf of bread bag of apples
container of yogurt
box of crackers
filling my basket
shortly after
the government axed
SNAP benefits for millions

in the check-out line
the friendly cashier
has dyed her hair black
Back again, she says
I smile
Last stop for the night
beep and the loaf of bread
sits at the end of the counter
with the rest of the items
$17.47 I say
then sigh
I know she says
shaking her head
I insert my bank card
into the machine
lounging at the counter
expecting approval
to flash on the screen

clamoring at the front of the store
someone flings up his arms
digs his foot into the vinyl
as if on the starting line
two grocery stockers
rush him
elbows jabbing at them
he spins and runs
out the sliding glass doors
leaving us four staring
at the vacant spot
as though it held the desperation
of the man who fled
with a backpack stuffed with food
the two stockers shrug
and plod away
I face the cashier
It happens, she says
and hands me the receipt

out in the parking lot
no sign of him
no tracks nor trail
I didn’t even get
a good look
I walk at a diagonal
to my car parked
by other affordable cars
greater Albany spreads
southeast
if him where would I be?
I follow the short route home
bag of groceries secure
in the backseat

Moriah Hampton teaches in the Writing and Critical Inquiry Program at SUNY-Albany. Her fiction, poetry, and photography have appeared in The Coachella Review, Typehouse Literary Magazine, Ponder Review, Gargoyle Magazine, Hamilton Stone Review, and elsewhere. Originally from the southeast, she has Scottish and English ancestry and is a citizen of the Cherokee Nation. She is also on the autism spectrum.