The voice rang rich and real
within a poverty of silence.
“I told her she should have put her purse away.
Them kids are raised to steal.”

Four people were taking up the space
of 3 times our number
in our now-familiar 6 feet distance
moving step by sticky step towards my turn.

I was in a funk in a funnel of commerce.
I was in a tunnel of impulse items,
imploring me to take them home.
None of them the lawn chair I’d hoped to buy,
just new essentials like hand sanitizer
mixing with candy that caught my eye.

I was drawn to this place with ‘dollar” in the name
by an echo of emotions from an era gone by.
A bittersweet, barely recognized nostalgia
for when life was rich in imagination
but short on cash for my kids.

Her voice was insistent, intimate, and intense
dispassionately dispatching the customers ahead of me,
spilling the coin of conversation not meant for those present.
This line just a background for the person on the call.

The last customer before me looked in her purse,
then at the ceiling lost in thought.
She never looked at nor seemed to hear the cashier
Is this the new social contract, touchless and unacknowledged?

I’m startled when the phone conversation stops.
“How are you?” The owner of the now friendly voice
could be my light-skinned younger relative.
Her natural hair in two curly puffs
a red uniform shirt covers her pregnancy like a caress
This fertile goddess deigns to address a customer
for the first time since I’ve been in the store

“Did you find everything alright?”
Her words were polite and professional
her tone and sweet glance said I see your sister
I’m, I’m well and yes thank you.
This pleasantry and respect exchanged,
she rings up my items
returning to the phone.

She smiles at me but speaks to the unseen presence on the line.
“I know he got money I’m getting my furniture today.”
“ I saw on the internet that he was throwing around dollars
at the bootleg strip joint.”

Synapses misfire in my brain as her words
ricochet around in my head sparking
question after question.
A bootleg strip joint? Bootleg Strip Joint
BOOTLEG STRIP JOINT?

I wanted to know
if it was in an incense-fragrant but
still funky basement like a ’70s house party?

I wanted to know
if it was like a backroads juke joint
selling fried everything and pigs’ feet out the jar?

I wanted to know
if it was down an alley through a door
with a big burly bouncer giving the side-eye
with a hand in his pocket or a hand slap and a smile?

I wanted to know if her man wore a mask and washed his hands
before putting them on her and her
like they say mama’s baby, daddy’s maybe, unborn child?

I wanted to know
how I had become so out of touch,
uninformed and qualified for the old auntie lady’s respect?

Bootleg juke joint fueled my imagination
like a tainted treasure of unexplored possibilities.

But all I said was thanks, take good care.