Fred’s, you Super Dollar Store
tucked behind a Waffle House and a Sonic drive-through
along Highway 165 in Sterlington, Louisiana,
how many times have I parked in your lot
to pick up something I forgot on my weekend
shopping trip only to be detoured inside displays
of purple, silver, blue foil trees on sale
from last Christmas’ Christmas, stacks
of Little Debbie Cakes, 4-H hair nestled
inside a straw hat urging me to bring home
a caramel cookie bar, half-off red stickers,
mark-downs of fleece sweatpants from Pakistan,
China, costing less than from any other place
even Walmart, which is what a man told me
who wanted to buy one but didn’t have enough money
and wished he did, when suddenly I time-traveled
back to the Bronx beneath the subway going
in and out of stores on my way home from school
in a heavy wool overcoat, gloves attached to sleeves
with suspenders so I wouldn’t lose them,
turning over each item wondering when I’d be able
to step up to the counter, studying others
who filled plastic baskets,
all the bright colors of adulthood.