I park at the store,

four slots away from all cars,

lift my mask in place.

Aisles memorized.

Chin lift hello to shoppers

like lonely truckers.

Stand on the blue line,

anxious cattle in a chute

waiting to move on,

past the new spit screen.

Roll out to my car and load,

bathe in alcohol,

wipe the door handle,

key, steering wheel, shift knob, hands.

Push my mask down, breathe.

Remember the past.

Mom ritual, that tissue,

some spit, chin grab, wipe,

clean our kid faces

so we looked presentable

going in the store.