My grocery cart rammed

a little foot jammed

in a narrow leather boot.

Backed up to a rack of Cambbell soup,

her mouth a Spaghetti-O,

she winced, knowing

my name and face. "Sorry,"

I snapped, pushing on to blueberry

muffins. "Brash," I reflected

in my kitchen, neglected

unpacking to give her a call.

Her phone voice was bath oil.

"Don't give it another thought!

Absolutely not!

We must meet for coffee!

Have a lovely holiday."

While soaking her foot in Epsom salts,

she meditated on my faults

and packed my sins

in a cookie tin

marked for

the next door neighbor.