Childhood Story

 It was just a tiny village

and everybody had their special roles.

Six churches, one drunken dentist,

one hardware store,

a small post office in a drug store,

an eight-lane bowling alley,

the barber, and the IGA grocery,

co-owned and run by my family and the Finks.

There were also tradesmen scattered about,

and thirty or more taverns, 

but that’s a story unto itself. 

I worked in the grocery, performing

most tasks, like checking and bagging,

stocking and delivery, sweeping and dusting,

marking prices on cans with black grease pencils.

I steered clear of the meat counter, though,

never trusting those knife-wielding butchers,

unable to stomach the blood, the smells.

When the summer folks arrived, mostly

rich city people who did not cook,

I learned to make potato salads and cole slaw

and baked beans, a vegetarian in the making.

The wealthy did not shop, calling in their orders,

and it was for me to take them their bags of goods.

Sometimes, I broke an egg or twelve along the way,

but they never tipped, so it did not bother me much.

It always amazed me that these people

with so much gave so little.