Peter Rabbit waves at me
in the express lane,
inked into the forearm of the hipster girl
loading guava jam and pinot grigio
on the black conveyor belt.
Unloading my cart, I tell her
“I like your ink.”
She smiles and holds out her arm for inspection
and I tell her about a colleague
with the Wild Things circling his bicep,
Max leading the parade.
Her boyfriend in skinny jeans has been listening,
rubbing small circles on her back while we talk.
“Let the Wild Rumpus begin!” he exclaims.
We laugh together as they push their shopping cart into the night.
The cashier smiles
scanning my bottle of Greek dressing.
“We used to tease my brother because he used this on everything.
Now, it says ‘for everything’
right on the bottle.”
“Maybe,” I say,
swiping my debit card,
“you should dare him to put it on ice cream.”
She’s laughing as she hands me my receipt.
The old saying lies.
The devil is not in the details.
They compose the sacred threads of divine connections,
drawing us to fellowship in
10 items or less.