I Must Have a Thing for Produce Guys

 

It all started when they built a new Hannaford in Gilford.

My sister and I drove there to buy beer

for our summer fires in the backyard.

We never remembered where they sold the beer,

and anyways, the produce shows up

first when you walk in the door,

so there’d be the guy lifting crates of apples,

and bananas shipped in

from faraway places

no one in the town had ever seen

beyond photos in our library series

that dated from the 1970s.

His forearms were

to die for.

And if we’d worked out,

I’d have never left town.

 

Then, there was the Target guy

buying food for the city of Minneapolis.

The store was right at the edge of the city between

the hipsters and the black neighborhood,

where one time after we became friends,

we passed each other in the parking lot,

me hauling lumber from Home Depot

in a big ass white truck,

and him wearing shades,

turning his silver commuter,

into the lot, dial turned to NPR.

All his shirts were collared cherry,

and neither of us could tell the difference

between a Monday shirt or a Saturday

night late shift.

 

Most recently, there’s the singer in a local band.

At a break in the set he hands me a card

with his cell number written on the back.

I’m having a party and I want

to fill up my house with sound this Saturday,

I feel like this band is the perfect one

for my living room.

I spend this morning

baking muffins with red sprinkles,

and berries inside

I turn over the card on the counter.

His name: Produce Manager.

 

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