The Daily Round

Usually, I punched in at one p.m.

I worked in the morning often enough

to know many of Greenbelt’s bevy of retirees

visited Co-op on daily outings

in the hour after we opened at nine.

The pace calmed until a furious lunch spurt;

then it deadened. During that down time,

I fantasized hiking Quebec’s blazing autumn

maple forests or the Cascades’ serene evergreen

wilderness, shaped phrases or revisions

for my next session with notebook or word processor.

One afternoon, I bought the Atlantic

to make the most of a slow spell. The first time

I carried parcels afterward, I rested

the magazine atop the garden’s brick partition—

by my return it was already gone.

§

In midsummer I’d stagger inside at the

height of the day, panting from the stifling

swamp heat, for the store’s mechanical chill

to rout it out of my body, ushering

customers with burdensome bags one by one to the curb.

I also moonlit indoors during surges

to bag for cashiers—my only duty that exercised

my brain. Bagging flipped journalism’s inverted

pyramid upright: large or heavy items as a base

on which to place small, light, or delicate

goods like tomatoes and eggs.

Big purchases added the challenge of spreading

the weight evenly across all the bags;

sometimes I caught flak for taking too long as I

evolved my plan of attack for a load.

§

Around eight at night, I’d wash the upstairs floor:

hallway, offices, bathrooms, break room.

I gathered each room’s trash and lugged it

down to the corridor behind produce

to toss in the compactor; I’d follow with

the corridor’s composty vegetable refuse,

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then the deli’s garbage, then I’d hop in behind

each register for the cashier’s wastebasket.

If I finished before nine o’clock,

I’d man parcel pick-up again or bag

so the checkout crowd wouldn’t bottleneck,

feeling like a wind-up toy soldier stuck marching in place

until the clock’s hands turned perpendicular.

After the lines to pay cleared, I patrolled

the aisles to establish only staff remained.

The closing supervisor unlocked the door once more

and held it wide while I retrieved dozens of carts

amassed at the curb and scattered amid

the car spots in my absence. As cashiers counted tills,

I returned merchandise shoppers opted

at the last moment not to buy to the shelves,

then took broom and dustpan to the floor

(someone else would mop it an hour before

the ensuing morning’s opening)

and ensured the shelves were reasonably neat.

§

An easy night would end as early

as nine-fifteen; frantic closings would push release

back until ten. Sore muscles and searing feet

purged the midday lull from recollection.

Only hefting stuffed paper and plastic sacks, hurrying

From curb to car to checkout to compactor

like a terrier too alarmed or elated at

new guests, the debilitating swelter stayed

with me from my shift—plus my role consigned

to transactions’ aftermath

and the day’s itself, restoring things

to morning order mucked up again

tomorrow. I took the short way home:

up the hill, across Parkway and the woods

by the GHI apartments to where

Eastway met Crescent. Long familiarity kept me

to the unlit path but, neurons short-circuited,

I often failed to remember and stumbled

over the three tree roots of graded height that framed

the ground into a pair of ascending steps.