I had just moved to the neighborhood
so I hit the supermarket
closest to my apt.
The place was locally owned, small, easy to get in
and I liked that
and I pushed my buggy through the aisles,
stocking up on sustenance.
But I couldn’t find the beer.
I did another circuit, up and down, back and forth,
combing, probing . . . .
I finally gave up, asked a stock boy
“Oh,” he said, “we don’t sell beer . . . .”
“No, sir,” he said. “Mr. Murray is a good Christian man . . . .”
I abandoned my buggy
and got the hell out of there, drove to their competitor, the evil
with its impressive selection of beer, 6-packs
and cases of beer to drown my damned