I miss the ol' 7-Eleven
that stood down the road
despite the crap it sold
--or simply just because;
The slurpee without warning
would freeze the brain
when gulped like dope.
And
the cigarette smokers
clogged my senses
as they gossiped about the latest offenses.
The fresh brewed coffee
sometimes overdone, but taste like candy
when
filled with cream and sugar
warming my soul like jingling gold.
The doors are now locked, like a prison
from the inside out, where its lovers
remain trapped; But --without the crap. . .
or
the possibility of parole,
ever.
