The **** crowed once…

He enters my store
nervously, cautiously examining
the merchandise on the shelves.

At least two decades
stretch between style and his clothes—

His wife follows demurely,
her feed sack dress presents
hand stitching, beautifully done,
to even my unqualified eye.

And then he speaks:
       Hi
followed by presentation of an item
clearly worthless to my trained eye.

We’d like to talk to someone
   about selling this please?

Procedure grants
no empathy, just rejection.

Business is for profit, after all.
And softly, sadly as they leave,
he articulates their purpose:
     We just needed something for groceries.

My chest tightens.
I did not grant them reprieve.

The **** crowed twice…

The lady approaches:
black skin, blue jeans
dingy
shirt and hair in disarray.

I look away.
Insistently she speaks,

     Sir, can I help you
     load those bags?

What's the angle?
     A few dollars is all I ask.
I’m-sorry-the-task-
is-done,
(though clearly I’ve just begun)

My children wait in the car;
I can hear them playing,
when next she speaks:
My kids are hungry.

My heart skips at the quivering lips
before me.
She walks away unfulfilled.

I await the third sounding.