Dollar General on Route 9

They cut the ribbon on a Tuesday,

a man in a vest, a grin, a crew.

I recognized the floor behind him —

my father used to cash his checks there too.

Same linoleum. Different light now.

That yellow-sick fluorescent hum.

The cereal's off-brand, the shelves are orange,

and everyone in the comments said welcome.

I grew up six miles down that road.

I know the names on every mailbox still.

I know the Dairy Queen went under,

and the bait shop, and the feed store on the hill.

Third Dollar General in the county.

Third ribbon. Third man in a vest.

The town keeps saying it needs something

and this is what arrives when it requests.

My father's been dead four years in March.

He'd probably shrug and say, well, it's a store.

He was good at accepting what came after

the thing he cared about wasn't there anymore.

I watched the clip three times before I closed it.

That floor. I knew every seam and grain.

Now it holds forty kinds of nothing

and a parking lot that fills up in the rain.