February 23, 2021

is this it,

you wonder, as you shuffle to your car with stained canvas bags, a list in your pocket 
of the same items cycling on repeat these last months, thinking of what version of tacos
you can drum up that will feel like a fresh idea or at least, a peek at coming attractions. 
Is this it, you ask yourself, adjusting the straps of your mask, tilting toward a dispenser 
of eucalyptus-scented sanitizer before picking up the next in a series of green baskets, 
where you place another round of butter and three avocados, a half-quart of cream,
two kinds of tortillas. The question hangs on your lips like a half-dead thing. 
You poke at it as you heave the bags over both shoulders, exchange limp farewells 
with the cashier. Outside, the snow’s come, hours before expected. Is this it, you ask 
the flakes as they descend, but they only keep landing in your mouth and melting.