deep and compulsive I reachinto the dark placebetween the kidney and the blackbeans, to pull what’s hidden to the front,to maintain the feel of a well-stocked shelf, a hornof plenty. my handfetches the last can, draws it out, the fecund delusionof the steady streamof men who’d load their armswith lightly damaged things, and lay them at my feetstrawberries, bulk snacks, wool socksin winter, of the always open-closing doorproduce guy, meat guy, night crew sauntering in, 9 or so,whenever I closed, who’d wink and ask,will you check me out, by which they meant, let mesteal somethingI used to dream of making out in the dairy casewith each and every onewhenever I was alone in the breakroom, licking day-old yogurtfrom my plastic spoonbetween stanzas of the metamorphoses, beat-up copy we’d readin fifteen-minute segments. I line upcans, satisfying form.a can for the stocker let gofor singing in the aisles. a canfor the hidden hand appearingfrom the other side of the milks, encouragingthe bottle forward as I reach in