An Old War Wound

I an holding a paper bag,

In the check out line 

At a small grocery store

In Tahiti.

Six people ahead of me.

I am becoming aware of moisture

Forming on the bottom of the bag,

Wherein sits a bottle of red wine.

I suspect that I had 

Placed the wine down too heavily

When adding it to my coffee and cereal.

Or maybe it’s the climate?

What store would offer such grocery bags?

Perhaps the coffee container was damp?

Yes, that would account for it...

Except the bottom of the bag is becoming wet.

There are still three customers before me,

And no garbage can in sight

As the wet becomes a drip,

And starts moving down my leg.

Tahiti is humid and hot,

And I am sweating.

It could be the weather...

But I know it is the wine.

What to do with the wine

Starting to drip steadily,

Suggesting it will, momentarily,

Pour from knee, to toe, to floor.

Only one customer between me and the cashier.

Will the cashier speak only French?

Surely she sees me 

And smells the problem.

James Bond would never be in this situation.

Before the bag disintegrates I can put it down

And run for the door,

Screaming  “I’m Shot!”

My pathetic attempt at “cool” is failing.

People are looking at me

As my shorts turn red 

And the wine puddles at my feet.

Face to face with the cashier.

She smiles, and bursts out laughing,

Grabs the remnants of the  bag

And throws it into the garbage can by her feet.

I pay for my destroyed groceries,

While wishing the ten amused people in the store

A slow and painful death.