Self-Checkout

The paradox of choice: supply demands

variety, but just how many brands

of waffles does a woman need to test

before selecting one that suits her best?

From waffles on to syrup (which entails

the nuances of sausage links, and sales),

it’s awful. Though Wynona hopes to build

her option-tolerance, last week she killed

a morning, slack-jawed, at the hardware store

trying to pick the perfect two-by-four-

inch strip of cardstock (teal a tad too jade,

luna too mucus, golf course lacking glade,

only to find her subtle English pea,

wall-sized, was not so subtle). You can see

why after several minutes making faces

at her reflection in the freezer cases

this afternoon, she simply calls it quits—

to hell with waffles, butter, bacon bits—

and drops her basket in the sea of feet

like a bomb or baby.

                                    Sure, she needs to eat,

would maybe place an order could she win

the takeout without going in again.

As for delivery, it sounds terrific

prior to toppings (“Ma’am, please be specific,

which kind of crust?”), and drive-through joints divide

their menu into menus: pick a side,

pick three, in fact. No thank you, that’s alright,

Wynona says. She’s lost her appetite,

flat dithered out. So—barely getting by—

why won’t she make a move to simplify?

She’d like to think that if she had her druthers

there’d be no druthers. Truth is, like the others

who stand, eyes glazing over, and assay

the stock, Wynona hates to look away,

believes if she could memorize the list

she’d know there’s nothing more than this she missed.