Walmart’s America

Woman in the old van
next to where I park
breastfeeds in the driver’s seat.
Toddler squirms behind her.
I think bad thoughts about the person
in a handicapped spot
who appears completely able.
He opens the back door, lifts out a stroller,
then his severely disabled son.
Inside the store, a big man
in a plaid flannel shirt
buys all the rolls of gauze on the shelf,
his arm completely wrapped in makeshift bandages,
dried blood on his hand.
Old man with a cane checks out,
two twelve-packs of Diet Coke® in his cart.
Nothing else.

My American Past

All the TV moms wore aprons,
sometimes even jewelry
while they cooked the family dinner.
Walter Cronkite brought the news,
no embellishments or hype.

We wore skirts in high school
unless it was “Hobo Day”
when we could pay a quarter
for the privilege of wearing pants.
Until Roe v. Wade girls would leave
and not come back.
My husband grew up in Florida,
remembers segregation,
Black men addressed as “boy,”
people called “colored” or worse.

From a Miami hotel window
I watched migrant workers
wait on a street corner
in early dawn,
lunch sacks in hand.
A pickup stopped,
they all climbed in
on their way to work in fields
so the rest of us could buy
fresh produce in the stores.

I’m a boomer, born after the war,
but I studied how our country built
internment camps for its enemies.

Things change.
Some better, some worse.

Jan Chronister observes the changing natural and political climates from northern Wisconsin and southern Georgia. Poetry provides a welcome outlet for her thoughts. Jan also runs a small press and publishes the works of fellow regional poets.