Eighty-Nine Cent Cashews Poem by Benjamin Feliciano

As my verbal incoherence might suggest,
You make me rather nervous.
I turn slightly, to be in your line of sight,
Trying not to seem like I'm doing it on purpose.
Standing in line to buy my cashews,
I shuffle self-consciously.
Rustling my dollar bill to catch your eye,
Happens almost involuntarily.
I stumble to get out a 'hello',
But nothing escapes my lips.
There you stood, glancing casually at a jar labeled 'tips'.
As passe as it sounds:
I think I've died and gone to heaven...
Because no where else on earth,
Do girls this good-looking work at 711.