Cans stacked so neatly and cleanly–
pictures of untasted Oregon blackberries,
dull luminescence of syrupy peaches–
I like to, no, I have to touch the labels.
When I pick up a can and turn it around and around,
I divide the purple numbers of the price tag,
by the black print of ounces on the label,
and I take a certain gleeful pride in finding the cheapest one.
If you were to ask me to sit down and count cans,
I couldn’t get past twenty-seven.
I got a problem with counting,
but not with complex divisions of fractions.
My brother and I used to sit in front of the TV.
Our hearts were filled with ecstatic lust
as Bob of the Price is Right pointed us
to that gorgous woman who introduced each marvelous item.
I get the biggest high now though,
in taking a significant other to Berkeley Bowl,
discussing the vast isles of fruit and vegetables,
so enraptured, we don’t even pause to read the National Enquirer.