the poet’s construction

it’s dusk as I
enter the grocery 

a jug of distilled 
water in my cart

in the cereal aisle
Octavio Paz is

constructing a 
small boat

with cereal                                         
boxes and asks

Can we ever 
escape this brutal

dream? the air 
smells of tequila

and musty pages
of an old book

I say I’m just here
for oat milk and

corn flakes—as my
cart drifts briefly

away from me and
he rushes toward me

kisses my forehead 
and leaves the store 

tears streaming down
his weary face