Mark Parsons
Security
The closed circuit TV
dome camera
from drop ceiling tile grid
watches the curious thing as it happens
below: women who work
the checkout lines, gathered together in small groups,
pull from identical smocks in the company's colors their smartphones
and log in preferred social media websites for updates,
an unthinking gesture
taken up
woman by woman and
traded off,
checking what they last knew
against what they know now:
staying abreast of a middle-aged Afro-American female celebrity
who’s visiting their rust belt town,
recently photographed
on the arm of a young stud
at her newsworthy cultural happening, who these same women
are certain will make an appearance:
her broad and noble brow;
chemically relaxed and straightened hair in a plain
and severe bun because
working is practical, when you live in a right-to-work state;
her smoldering eyes are privy
to coffee break insights
their husbands and boyfriends
wipe from their faces and crumple in kerchiefs
driving home from work.
The women have no doubt she’ll say to the one most
well-endowed among them,
“It was my eyes that first attracted him.”