Don’t Praise the Machine

I used the self-checkout
At the supermarket

The supervisor
An older woman
Mid-fifties
Stood there
Green-jacketed
Bored
Robbed of meaning
Feet and ankles swelling
Sides bulging
Waiting
Just waiting

At the end
As I lifted my bag
The checkout thanked me
With its cold indifferent voice

And what did I do?
I said “Thank you” right back
Right back to the machine

And the woman supervising
Turned and screamed
And crumbled into dust

I took my bag and left
It was sunny and warm outside
A real beauty of a day