Grocery Shopping Poem

To the two women fighting

in the cart corral this evening,
maybe there's something wrong with you
that I cannot see--
a tricky hip,
a faulty ticker,
weak ankles that act up on sunny days
like today.

Peering between the motes in my own eyes,
I hesitate to judge you.

But I watched you sprint
the twenty feet outside the door,
racing to reach
the motorized cart
set aside for people
who struggle with walking
the width of this store.

I stood there in the checkout line,
my toddler in my arms,
and saw your feisty hips
collide
bouncing each other
out of the way
to reach the prize.
You giggled and shouted and shrieked,
and finally one of you
sank into the seat,
victorious.

Your daughter or niece or neighbor girl or friend--
a girl of about seven--
stepped through the doors
just as you threw the cart exuberantly
into reverse,
and she had to step lively
to avoid
getting hit
by your highjinks.
She did not look impressed.

I wonder.
Would you have hip-checked
my grandma
for that motorized prize?

Maybe there's something wrong with you
that I cannot see,
but I'll admit
that I laughed
uncharitably
all the way to the car
when I saw
that the battery
was dead

and you got off
your lazy ass
and walked.