Caricature Artist in a 7-Eleven at 1 O’clock in the Morning

By Emily Dempsey





I’m hiding behind a shelf of thumb-smashed Little Debbie’s

Trying to capture the cashier’s face in less than a minute,

So I’m not suspected of stealing anything

Other than his stale expression.

Scratching a 0.7 ink pen in my olive-green faux leather sketchbook

Where I collect people’s faces.

The purple sacks hanging from his eyes look like pregnant betta fish bellies.

My dad’s eye bags were silly putty.

He used to tell me I gave them to him

When I was in college and stopped going to church.

His hair went gray because I’m a terrible driver

That loves road trips.

When he died, I started biting my fingernails.

I’d bite each one in weekly cycles 

So that I’d always have a fresh one to chew on.



I always draw in ink so that I’m forced to make the best out of mistakes.

The cashier’s mustache is detached from his beard,

But I accidentally drew them connected.

So now I’m fashioning all his facial hair into a long Viking braid

And sketching horns on his 7-Eleven visor.

Borrowing someone’s face to motivate creativity

Feels like raiding a stranger’s photo album

And hanging their pictures in your house

Because you can’t stand to look at your own.

I have a carboard box under my bed

Filled with empty frames and a gallon bag of prints.

Every time I try to take it out, I have that feeling you get

In the seconds before slipping into a familiar dream

Or nightmare, so I slide it back underneath, all the way, against the wall.



I pocket the sketchbook and stare at the screaming merchandise,  

Trying to decide if all these shelves were removed,

Would this place feel more intimate or just empty?

I start eeny-meeny-miny-moe-ing

An oatmeal crème pie and a bag of mini glazed donuts,

But I came here for Cool Whip.

My dad told me you can make any cereal a dessert

If you use Cool Whip instead of milk.

Nazareth is singing “Where Are You Now.”

There’s two of those hot dog grills by the refrigerator section.

I imagine myself as a little cozy sausage,

Greased and dizzying on a hot dog roller coaster.

As I walk home, I pull my turtleneck over my face, 

So that my hair is a patch of grass on the sidewalk.  

I painted my nails to stop chewing them,

But now I like the taste of polish.





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