Overheard

I hear her the first time before I turn
the corner, walking through the refrigerated 
section and shelves still stacked with butter 

blocks, cardboard boxes of eggs, seasonal 
peppermint- and mocha-flavored creamers.
Leave me alone, no, you leave me alone— 

the inflection of anger in her voice somehow 
incongruous with the almost languid way she 
pushes her cart and considers a bag of frozen 

peas. Leave me alone, she repeats into her phone 
as she makes the rounds for her grocery items. 
Other shoppers keep their distance and avoid 

eye contact. When did we not exist in 
a time of conflict that didn't trickle down 
into the minutiae of our lives? I go in solitude 

so as not to drink out of everybody's
cistern wrote Nietzsche, afraid the world
might rob him of his soul. What strikes me

is that she keeps the line open, doesn't 
cut off the connection, then put her phone
on silent. Not a big anger, perhaps—

Its audible tip, just enough to pierce the air 
toward a listening. Just enough so the curious 
soul leans a little way out of its bunker.