Hour Eighteen: My Old Haunt

We all worked there–the entire family.

It would always happen when we were in the back,

with the cameras poised to capture store traffic.

Chopping strawberries or pineapple into bite size toppings,

I’d look up and see a figure enter the glass entrance door,

pull off my food safety plastic gloves,

wiping my hands on my apron as I entered the front–

to find no one.


All of us had the experience.

Not even counting the time I searched everywhere for the mochis,

nowhere to be found; I gave up and busied myself with stocking paper cups,

when SLAM, a package of mochis slapped the cement, seemingly from the roof.


A psychic said a meth addict died behind the store, a young man.

So, when I stood in my own home, facing the kitchen entryway,

the others with their backs to the door,

I asked, “Who’s that?”

When they turned, the long-haired, young man in the long trench coat was gone.

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