The old corner stores carried things in ones and twos.
Individual, buy one-at-a-time smokes you needed
to get through the day.
One sold individual aspirins and band-aids
and eggs. Smelled of wet dogs and mouldy ceilings on dreary
spring days.
No muzak blaring. No loyalty points. Just the cadence of missus
behind the counter, bantering about the weather or local politics
with you and Gerry from down the street.
Never more than two customers at a time, unless school was out
and the door set the bell jangling as droopy-jeaned teenagers
ambled in for a quick sugar-salt-fat fix.
Time wasn’t wasted looking over a score or more choices of pea soup
or chocolate bars. Two, three brands if you were lucky.
You never bothered checking the expiry date.
– from I'd Write the Sea Like a Parlour Game
(Breakwater Books, 2017)
