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Buddha at the Cash Register

by Lois June Wickstrom

A new woman at the register
just learning the prices, smiles
as I place my fruit before her
oblivious of the impatient line

She lifts my plum hesitantly
pausing above the scale
the purple globe resonates
God is in that plum.

Her eyes sparkle in wonder
“It’s a plum,” I tell her.
It sits placidly on the pan
Bells ring. The line behind me shifts.

The printer clatters.
Gears clank forth paper.
Lights illumine the register face.
Twenty-three cents. The price of God.

She puts my plum gently
in the bottom of a bag
then elevates my bananas
glowing bananas, shimmering bananas

Her lips an inner smile
The bananas are her joy
“They’re bananas,” I say
Fruit must be sold pricelessly.