holding the door

she rubs her matted hair
the fleshy black woman
in front of me at the gas station

she’s buying lotto tickets
wads of crumpled paper coming forth
numbers chanted in a low rasp

she pays no heed to my sighing and pacing
so I allow myself the daydream
of shoving her out of my way

she finishes at last
pink tickets shuffled, rubber-banded
placed gingerly in her coat pocket

I move briskly forward to pay
correct change in hand
waving away the receipt

I turn to leave
and as I glance up from my watch
there she is again:

holding the door for me.