Half a block down and across the street from
childhood, the tiny store rises from an uneven sidewalk,
 the screen door ripping gracefully
from its wooden frame three steps up.

I open it to the scent of apples in a barrel, dill from a pickle
crock, cool waves of air escaping from the meat counter
where Mrs. Nelson pulls out six hot dogs strung together,
wraps them in white paper for the lady in the flowered house
dress with a grocery bag hanging loosely from her hand.

I pause at the cloudy glass counter where Smith Brothers
licorice whips fill a see-through jar, needles and threads
line up in colorful abundance, a jar of sharpened
Ticonderoga pencils are sun beams in a jar.
 Bit-O-Honey, bubble gum cigars, Candy Buttons and cigarettes,
Jujubes, Red Hots, Oh Henry! bars —
my mouth can still taste the sweetness.

Mrs. Nelson's spotted white apron lies around her ample hips,
her dark hair is streaked with gray and pinned up on one side,
curled girlishly around her chubby cheeks. With a pudgy finger,
she pushes the correct button. I hear the clang of the brass
cash register, see her give its crank her signature enthusiastic
turn, know my memories are no small purchase.


From Cowgirl Skirts and Music Boxes (forthcoming from Publishing Partners).
Used here with permission.