Her hand, shaking and covered with bluish age spots,
was trying desperately
to write a check.
Frail, wrinkled fingers were unsteady
as they held the tattered, worn checkbook open.
A wobbling pen,
protruding from yesterdays statuesque fingers,
scribbled the information in a slow deliberate pace.
Other checkout stands had staggered lines of people
extending far into fast-moving lanes
of busy, every-day shoppers;
I had to wait,
starring at the well-lit sign hanging above the isle:
"Express Lane - No Checks"

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