Convenience Store

Again and again and again
like the soft pour of incessant rain
onto a waiting street,
she patiently received these
motley bunches of customers,
a far-away gaze in her
limpid blue eyes,
and rang up ice cream bars, packs
of generic cigarettes, neon colored
Slurpies fake flavored so fucking
popular, slim cardboard boxes of Tampax,
bags of Cheetos and chips and single cans
of Campbell’s tomato soup
from start of shift at noon
until the sifting shadows of night,
not forgetting for more than a minute,
or two at most, her date later
with black haired Johnny the boy
from south of Highway 94
and their dance of sugar and salt,
salt and sugar
of freedom and feeling,
they’ll do over
and over
and over
reeling in each other’s
glad and grateful,
hungry arms.