salt on a slug

sticky from a sweaty man
in the backseat of a car,
I crawl from under a rock
into the grocery store
with my nipples obvious
in my strappy tee shirt and
legs bare in frayed blue jean shorts.
overripe cantaloupe smell
seeps from florescent lights and
groaning refrigerators.
a heap of green bananas
on the tired linoleum
waits for its appointed time.
a stock boy grins at me while
piling onions in a mound.
my hair is limp and greasy;
my eyes weary but agleam
with insolent self-loathing.
I toss orange juice, bread and
a bag of rice in the cart.
a frisson of cold spite runs
up my spine like a whip as
a wife pinching cucumbers
opines that I’m just trash to
her voyeuristic husband,
and a well dressed gentleman
buying coffee beans and milk
offers me a ride, and we
both know what he means by that.
when the cashier lady says
that I have no self respect
I lick my lips slowly as
if fixing to suck dick in
promiscuous defiance
as she curtly rings me up.
the security guard doffs
his cap as I saunter out
waggling my ass and leaving
a glistening trail of slime
that anyone can follow.