In the Manager’s office, second floor,
glass windows overlooking the grocery store,
I was given one uniform dress: blue-green
synthetic, zip-front, a pocket to sport
the Lucky nametag. I hemmed it short,
just to my fingertips.
There were no scanners then, the register
an oversized adding machine with dozens
of buttons. My fingers got fast. I recited
prices hand-stamped on the stickers,
weighed the produce, punched the buttons,
hit the Enter key with the side of my hand.
Learned how to bag, and how to dodge
the Assistant Manager lurking in the breakroom
by the lockers and soda cans.
Coming home after work, I’d slip out of the dress,
and lean on the washer in my underwear.
In my sleep, murmur Wonder Bread,
50 cents. Pork chops, 2.95.
Bananas, 7 cents a pound.
At the end of my first week, I stood in line
with the customers, to cash my first paycheck.
The dollars and cents impossibly small
for the weight of the fatigue I felt.
With my thumb, I tried to rub out the logo,
the Lucky on the check.
The Main Street Rag, Fall 2024