Suds And Satan by Ben Newell

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 out
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 . . . .

no beer.

I finally gave up, asked a stock boy
for assistance—

“Oh,” he said, “we don’t sell beer . . . .”

“No 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
corporate Kroger
with its impressive selection of beer, 6-packs
and 12-packs
and cases
and cases of beer to drown my damned

Ben Newell 2

Ben Newell, 43, works as a library clerk at a small college in Jackson, Mississippi. His poems have appeared in The Blood Machine, Chiron Review, LUMMOX, Nerve Cowboy, Pink Litter, and other underground publications. He is a Bennington College dropout.


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