On Sunday Morning


New to this place,
I keep forgetting the rules.
I pop into the store for some milk, bread, cheese,
then grab a bottle of wine on my way out—
an afterthought really, I’m innocent as a cookie.
But the cashier seizes my bottle,
looks at me as if I tossed a puppy
into traffic, and tells me again
that she can’t sell alcohol on Sundays
“Till ONE PM.”
Nevermind that I don’t believe
in clock-watching deities,
or in deities at all,
unless you count butterflies,
and octopuses,
and redwood trees.
This is the deep south,
God’s country,
where you can buy a gun
but not a beer
on Sunday morning.