The Checkout Line
by Ann Grogan / April 12th, 2026
A gasconader, a bantam brain
who can’t come in from the rain,
who thinks his taste Babylonian
when all it is, is vulgarian.
A midget man is his accoutrement,
that fits right in with his lowest brow,
but stands at attention without one doubt
for a gilded cod piece as his redoubt.
A master of slurs that roll easily off
a forked tongue, but like a sloth
is a mind that flails and mouth that froths
to dole out hurt like a Visigoth.
A widening girth and a shrinking mind,
‘til a lonely pea is what you’ll find
while all rejoice for our lifetimes
when he’s gone to his ultimate checkout line.
Ann Grogan is a joyful octogenarian, pianophile, retired lawyer, and emerging poet who lives in San Francisco, CA. Her writing promotes the unequivocal permission to pursue one’s passions at any age. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Dissent Voice, Querencia, Amethyst Review, Shot Glass Journal, Little Old Lady, The Prairie Review, Oddball Journal, New Verse News, Vistas & Byways, Bloomin’ Onion, and Writers Resist. Her poem “Used Envelopes” was chosen as a semifinalist in The Writing Salon’s 2025 Jane Underwood Poetry Prize. Her music and poetry website is rhapsodydmb.com.
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This article was posted on Sunday, April 12th, 2026 at 8:00am and is filed under Poetry.
