My Brush with Infamy

We strolled the store, late,
when I saw him several times.
Warm skin tone, dark hair,
wandering isles with no groceries,
nor shopping basket of his own.

Another aisle, another appearance,
near boxes of starchy foods,
he slid up much closer with
conspicuous glances,
hunting for recognition,
or something more shallow.

He leaned his dark head closer
and stared at a new version of
the black, handmade beaded strand
that has inhabited my neck
for several years -

was that a smile?

In line, he slid in behind us,
and placed a pack of white socks
onto the black conveyor belt.

So long shopping for socks?

In the slushy, darkened lot,
he was gone, and I wondered,
Did he get an answer
for his unspoken question?