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"The General Store" by Linda Munson Peth
Once, every few weeks,
not strictly speaking of a Blue Moon,
We take the Harvester for a pick-up,
Our truck to the General Store,
More or less out of fashion for the times, the Temperature of
the tunes, of the outside,
But to us, a tin-roofed treasure of merchandising.
It seems it was built to suit us, shoe us, feed us: Canned goods
and graven images,
Seeds and feeds for dogs and hogs,
Candy and a catalogue of miscellaneous crimes.
Ghost Children have heard the Saturday call, fall Into places
in every space to spare,
Ready for trading.
Going, we pick our way past hay fields, snow fields, plowed
fields, mine fields.
Arriving, we are petitioned by petunias holding Out their arms,
Charging, then changing their minds.
Firecrackers are cracking, advertising windows.
The pickle barrels are gone, but the soda machine Is going great guns.
Ganging inside, we see that new springs have been neatly installed
in the floorboards, new fun, As we slide past of the register.
Wood fans plan, push and paddle currents,
Air pillows pushed on our heads.
Plants are keeping to their beds, and bursting up the stairs
a balcony of boots, stocked steps.
The General Store has everything we need to go on and on and
on,
Shelved with ourselves, riches And finest, appliances of the
Heart and soul.
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