Spratchet

I like the idea of a spratchet,

which today I learned

is the plastic divider

used in check-out lines

that says this is almost mine

and this is almost yours.

I like how it helps two strangers

not skinny dip in the reservoirs

of each other’s bank accounts.

There’s nothing rude about a spratchet—

it’s polite as plastic can possibly be.

Unlike the bolt click behind a door

or the whining hinge of a fence gate,

the spratchet keeps things

only subtly separate.

Gently, the cashier lowers

my oyster crackers into a bag.

He divides the dry from the frozen.

I nod my spratchet nod. At work

I shake with my practiced

spratchet hand. At home,

I put the groceries in the cupboard

and kiss my love, and even our lips

are little spratchets. I cannot know her.

She cannot know me. No matter

how intimate. Not really.

That’s what we have to agree on.

That's what I intend on forgetting.