We circle the store three times.
We are convinced that the man behind the butcher counter,
is staring at us. Like he's catching on, to some sort of plan.
We stand outside the store.
Too embarrassed to go back in, and get stared at,
by the man behind the butcher counter.
"They're in there, I know it."
"What do we do now?"
There will be no cookies,
for the teenagers who go to Vons stoned.
For they always miss isle nine, for some reason.