Convenience store diaries

Jaywalking teens have candy coated dreams, make it to Mac’s Milk for licorice swizzles and Big Foot chewiness; the man behind the counter has three bullet holes in him, and the camera watches sphinxlike in the upper corner enclave: Popeye candy sticks and Bubble King for a nickel, and Caramilk cream shakes and a clutch of flowers, sneaking glances at the porn, and the cigarettes are carcinogenic and the pepperoni sticks aren’t much better. And the coffee's grinding and percolating, whistling thickly in our nostrils and the musty cloak of old woman coming in for milk and peas for a soup she’s gonna make her grandkids. And degenerate vandals and spraypaint and the oversized cars parking illegally at the corner and the holdups at 3 am and you barely escape with your life; ah the eternal trickle of customers not even a rainy day can stop, and food for super pets, and we came to pick up the paper but why not also the enquirer, and maybe even Jesus would come here looking for some fish or five thousand loaves of wonder bread, so you’d say to Him, ‘a party tonight so why not grab a bag of charcoal while you’re at it, for the bbq?’ It’s always Wednesday evening when we’re walking off to storefronts, and the lamp-pole is grey and tilted and the van drops off another load of sugary treats and 'I haven’t even seen you since you moved to Bathurst and Wilson. Ah right there’s the 7-11 there and they got everything you want there...'

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