I remember my first off-campus apartment,
buying my own groceries, preparing my own meals.
I shopped at a Kroger’s conveniently across the street,
the next closest supermarket an IGA across town,
and of course I didn’t own a car.

One night, having smoked a joint,
I went into Kroger’s to buy some food.
Pushing my shopping cart down the aisles,
lost in my daydreams,
I suddenly felt a hand squeeze my ass.
Startled, I looked into the meaty face
of a guy I guessed a few years older,
wearing a store apron and a shit-eating grin.

“Can I help you find anything?” he smirked.

Shaken, I stammered no
as he trundled off like a raccoon,
paid for my groceries.

A few days later I went back,
this time with my wits about me.
The fat guy in the apron
started following me around the store again,
pretending to be attending to business.
This time he waylaid me by the canned goods,
grabbing a fistful of my ass.

Humiliated, I left the store, telling myself
I’d have to shop at IGA from now on.
But back home, firing up a pipe
in an attempt to put it all behind me,
I just couldn’t shake the humiliation,
exploded out the door and across the street.

The fat store clerk stood with some co-workers
by the manager’s kiosk, when I went in.

“Don’t ever do that shit again!”
I stabbed at his fat face.

He spluttered, off-guard,
but I didn’t wait for an explanation,
just turned on my heel,
shouted again over my shoulder,
“Don’t ever do that shit to me again!”