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.