Already he saw it all,
rocked back against his tobacco counter, staring out
the barred window of his grocery
at the highway and the green wilderness of kudzu
quilting the hills beyond.
Often a customer standing inside the door
had to shuffle or cough, or a stranger in a hurry
might slap the top of the Coke box.
I raided the ice-cream cooler a hundred times.
On hot days a fan turned its slow head
in a corner, and in winter
the fat stove sighed over the oiled floor.
A gospel quartet always sang on the radio,
promises that may have signified.
For a clean high tenor
his head might tilt,
and he rarely moved unless he had to.
The spirit had simply retired to a chair
for a reverie of twenty years,
as though he’d found a window into himself,
or out. And only occasionally,
when the store was empty, would he turn
to check the register or the meat freezer,
the aisle behind the dress patterns
and the racks of thread,
the way a traveler broken down in the country
will look up the road
for help he knows isn’t coming,
or a man who’s lost a good watch
will continue to glance at his wrist.
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