The checkout girl at the Walmart on Village Boulevard is broken.

Her russet curls hang limply around her graying face

As she slides my cereal boxes over the glass scanner with feeble hands

The skin around her fishy eyes sags with a stagnant sadness

And the years of monotony rest heavily on her wilting shoulders

While she loads disposable razors and strawberry pop-tarts into sticky, semi-transparent plastic bags

Her automatic movements are dripping with regret and insipidness

She isn't a day over thirty-five

Although she has outlived the expiration date

Printed in neat, black letters

Underneath her dingy,blue smock

I wish I could wrap up happiness

In crinkly yellow cellophane

And leave it somewhere she frequents for her to find

Perhaps she would flash a crooked smile exposing a row of straight whitened teeth

But life has dealt her the unlucky hand

Necessary for others to win the game

As she looks through me and offers up a raspy ‘Have a nice day’

I wonder if anyone will ever fix her

Or if she’s past caring anymore.