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Poem

Ducked below the counter
retrieving cans of pop,
Sally hidden from our view;
the counter lined on top.

Seven rootbeer, thirteen cola
three in gingerale.
Some are red, some in blue,
some are green and pale.

Pressed together warm with gas
grouped in every label.
Sally careful not to drop
or bang to keep them stable.

A list of sodas penciled down
on just a scrap of paper
as Sally fills her wanted list
and adds them as they taper.

A stubby fridge for holding pop;
it's glass door sealed cool.
As Sally tugs to pull the handle;
and acts more like a mule.

On opening she sees their place
and soon begins to stock.
She fills each hole to face them up
and sorts them block by block.

The fridge is full; the job is done;
it's shut and sealed in peace.
And Sally steps behind the counter
to see her sales increase.

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