By Patricia Thrushart
They were so proud of the place—
Mrs. J and her flowerpots—
kept it immaculate, scrubbing
floor corners down the coffee counter aisle
with a toothbrush.
She’d have a heart attack seeing it like this.
Lorraine told me the night they sold and
I cried, oh I cried, even though some
customers thought us cashiers were lot
lizards, or that time a guy showed up,
all made up, with a stuffed bra,
g-string, garter and hose and high heels, and a credit card that didn’t work. There was
sex in the walk-in cooler, whipped cream battles in the kitchen, and a certain cashier a little too friendly with the truckers in
Janie’s office.
I hated to leave the place, I’d be there
today if the Js still owned it. Someone
grabbed the kitchen time cards, still
there from 2005, and gave me
mine, like time was frozen, like I’m
not 17 years older, like weeds aren’t pushing up through cracks in the concrete, like I just punched out and will be back
where I felt I belonged
in the morning.
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