Period in the produce aisle

My period likes to make an appearance at Shaws on the third Saturday of each month
I know the dents of the stainless steel door in stall 1 like how the shadows know the moon
She likes to jump in while I'm waiting for a donut, filling a prescription, testing for ripe fruit
As I knock on the watermelon rind or prod the mango or pick the stem off the avocado
She will let me know I'm overripe with a knock and a squeeze and a fever-flush
My period likes to be the first debutante to present herself at the winter ball
Fall colors in a sea of cold blues and waxing silvers
She likes to gracefully, daintily dip down the stairs, practically unnoticed until I'm the next one to go in the checkout line
Then tango
Rumba, Foxtrot, bunnyhop, twist across the dance floor, fling herself into the arms of unexpecting suitors
Practice dirty dancing without telling them about the lift
She likes to whip the docile smile off their faces and make them look
She'll have the forwardthinkingness to come when my father is in the dog food aisle, half a world away, with the only credit card
She'll come when I'm furthest from the tampon section wearing white bell-bottoms and feeling overwhelmed
She'll dig fingers deep into the mush of my brain, push aside my polite barrier, make me growl at the old man staring 
My period likes to make an appearance at Shaws on the third Saturday of every month