CONVENIENCE STORE


I take a drive through Utah, Kansas, Nebraska.
Wild geese melt into the cloth of sky,
ants surge into the hollows of the earth,
steely grass bends backward as I pass.

I stop at a convenience store:
snack racks hold tiers of cherry bombs,
cinnamon red hots, globes
of jaw breakers that have the ability
to dye the lips to a martian blue.
As I stroll through aisles of dusty soup cans,
expired cereal, I think of the power
of a few quarters, the comfort
it gives me to carry arms full
of warm Cocoa Cola, melted
cupcakes, sugar glazed donuts, toward
the counter--what can be contained
in my arms, all in the taking,
the grasping of it.

When I wait on line to pay
for my goods, I feel an unhurried peace.
How I like it. This drive of endlessness
punctuated by rest stops with names
like Mike's Mart, Snack World,
or just a placard that reads: Food.
How I love the words:
Twinky, Ring Dings, Twizzler
and all their sugary sweet
fluffy frosty chewy manufactured
dreams. How I love the willingness
of the cashier, a young boy,
who is surrounded by towers
of beef jerky, cartons of cigarettes,
reams of lottery tickets. It is the way
he picks up my shriveled
bill, without hesitation, with great fervor.
I think it is a fare exchange. This
sweaty dollar bill for my childhood nostalgia.
And then my rush of knowing
it will all be mine--sugar, juices, pralines,
this sating of all my highway desires
thrown in a paper sack. I leave knowing
the place has told me something of hunger.

Sweet roads bring me to places
I will never go, and in the rearview mirror,

the convenience store shrinks
into the backdrop of stars,
but smaller, smaller than that.

By Tina Chang

Back to Previous Page

Back to Main Menu