The Corner Grocery Store

by Walter McDonald

Slope-shouldered, thin,

disabled by the Bataan

death march,

my boss sold

whatever he could stock

on meager shelves

in 1946. Mornings

after fits of coughing

he scouted ads,

sent me for specials

to what in ten years more

they’d call supermarkets.

Shaking his head

he marked each item up

however much he thought

would sell.

Once a day

he called his ex-wife

long distance, ended

slamming the phone down,

screaming at me.

Always his crotch

itched from jungle rot.

Halfway through a sale

he’d motion me to ring it up

and rush out scratching wildly.

He had a trunk of souvenirs,

Japanese coins and teeth

and paper bills thick

as parchment. He doled them out,

bribed me to settle

for fifty cents a day.

Within six months his souvenirs,

his jungle rot, his customers

that never bought

more than a dollar’s worth,

drove him to bed,

wheezing for me to ring

exactly what they bought,

called me thief, one morning

hissed You Jap

you murderer get out.