Do Angels Really Shop at Costco? 

Carol Casey

I met her in the OnRoute washroom, 

just off Highway 401, 

that summer when the world 

was full of shrouds. 

We stood, side by side,

at the ceramic column 

of diminishing sinks, 

where the slate-grey corridor of doors 

repeated in the mirrors.

She looked at my slacks-

a turquoise paisley pattern-

smiled at me and said 

“I see you’re wearing 

your happy pants- and I’m 

wearing my happy shoes.

I got them at Costco.” 

I looked down, pink/purple floral,

then into her smile, 

and the depths of her eyes. 

“Yes, happy,” I said, inarticulate.

“Happy,” she said; “Happy,” I said.

We tossed the word back and forth, 

a golden ball—part bird, part sylph, 

part dance till the ice behind 

my eyes melted; till the woman 

using the hand-dryer started 

to smile and bob. “Thank-you,” 

I said, as we wafted 

out of the washroom. 

I turned toward the exit. 

She disappeared into the lineup

at the Starbucks booth. 

Image by EinPole (2022) from Wikimedia