On the bulletin board at the Stewart’s is a cluster
of flyers, some with sides or bottoms frayed
with little tags people can pull off. The one for money
from WIC for mothers of small children or women
about to be has been stripped bare. There’s also fishing
and youth art and caregiving; a raffle, a rideshare, a yard sale.
Turns out this store won store of the month, thanks
to people like me apparently. Was it volume of meat products
and beer moved, ice cream scooped, or gas pumped? I claim this
corner table, dark red, plastic coated, and its dominion
over the register and the last magazine rack in the world,
its view of bottles of blue raspberry and lines of lit up
bags of nut mix, of hot dogs slowly turning
over and over and over.