The later it gets, the more nothing.
—Woman at the register
Yeah, we’re open ’til midnight,
but few customers come after 9:00.
I like when it’s slow and quiet—
just me and the store lights.
I don’t like the sirens
racing along Main Street.
I always worry it’s my kid hurt
or my best girlfriend with another
black eye or busted rib.
When I’m here by myself, I draw
dress patterns for my daughter.
She’s seven, and a mess, I tell you.
I make her clothes on weekends,
lay her on a sheet of butcher paper,
then trace around her with a crayon
—shoulders, waist, hips—talking
fabrics and colors, lace and spangles.
I’m ticklish, but she pays no mind
to the tracing, just grins and laughs,
rolling her eyes as I haul her up
and set her in the wheelchair.
You need a receipt? Have a nice night.
Jes Simmons, a second-generation poet and jazz drummer, works at Longwood University and lives in Farmville, Va.
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