The Poet at Trader Joe’s

She’s singing out in front
of the Roseville Trader Joe’s,
hair uncombed,
eyes drops of black moon.

I pause
in front of the chrysanthemums.
Automatic doors open and close
as people file inside.

I turn to her,
the window of her voice opens,
and the parking lot is left behind.

Her song is the hum of insects in the grass,
water so low in the well its life is an echo.

It is laborers in a green field,
hot sun stinging their backs,
singing
so no one will have breath left to cry.