Piggly Wiggly
Lord, the front door sings all day—a cheerful little jiggle,welcoming every soul that wanders through Piggly Wiggly.
Old Mr. Hank comes every dawn,his overalls faded blue.
A sack of grits, black coffee strong,and sausage links will do.
He tips his cap to every one and knows each checker well; he'll talk about the fishing hole before the register bell.
Miss Ruby glides with coupon book tucked neatly in her purse.
She counts each penny twice with care,though she'd never call it a curse.
She buys sweet tea, flour, butter,peaches ripe as June,and humming while she wheels her cart,she hums an old church tune.
Young mama hurries through the aisles,three children in a train.
Diapers, milk, bananas, bread—she smiles despite the strain.
A cookie shared, a little laugh,a kiss upon a head;love fills that buggy far beyond the groceries it has fed.
The high school boys rush through the doorwith pockets full of change.
Potato chips and fizzy drinks,their appetites are strange.
A frozen pizza, candy bars,and ice cream piled up high—they leave as loud as summer birds beneath a Southern sky.
The widowed man comes every week,his basket neat and small:One tomato, soup, and crackers,two apples—that is all.
The ladies always ask him how his roses bloom out back.
He leaves with more than groceries;he leaves with friendship packed.
And every evening, one by one,the carts roll out the door,Filled with suppers, birthday cakes,and hopes for something more.
For every list tells someone's tale,both joyful and profound—A little town inside a store,where kindness still is found.
So let the front door ring again,its happy little jiggle; Life dances down each grocery aisle at Piggly Wiggly .
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