Poetry By
Melissa Westemeier
Published on: 4/1/2010
The 7-Eleven at 37
At 16 the 7-Eleven allures -- it's an enticing place. Luridly colored forbidden fruits line the shelves: Trojans Marlboros Mohawk Schnapps Powerball tickets and Penthouse Walking through the aisles with friends they try on adulthood like new sunglasses, admiring the view, unaware that focus can be blurred. They gain sophistication with the addition of cars, keys and extended curfews, gaping lustfully at things illegal, within reach, but out of grasp. Aware of quasi-official status they select other poisons that don't require legal age or a photo ID to purchase: Skittles Big Gulps Doritos Slurpees and Twinkies At midnight blue lights hum above the icy parking lot. I pull my dented minivan next to a car full of teenagers, their boisterous laughter, blaring stereo fill my ears. I rush past every item they covet but cannot buy, grab a gallon of milk for my kids' breakfast. Such an unglamorous purchase. I consider a pack of gum and the fact that despite an array of laws and ordinances, the teenagers roaming the aisles of this convenience store, are freer than me tonight. Unblinking, the clerk passes my change across a counter smeared with fingerprint ID's of a thousand hands. My trip to the 7-Eleven, wrought of desperation and necessity, leaves in its wake youth, enraptured by things I no longer crave.
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