He liked to watch poor people in poorhouse clothes going about their business. He watched them from the alleyway next to the Seder’s grocery, crouching hidden behind the stacked produce crates. The Seder grocer piled up the empty crates, made from slat-wood and cooper’s rim-cinches, in disorderly stacks; potato and rutabaga, radishes and redeye-cabbage, crates that once held salted pork and shoulder, mutton and cows’ tripe, all sorts of empty wooden crates. He watched until his eyes went blurry and his mouth dry. He watched until he wouldn’t dare watch anymore. He watched until he got hungry, until the need to slake his thirst was overwhelming. He watched until the thought of watching became unbearable.
The poorhouse poor queued in front of the Slavic Mission. The soup-line circled the block crossways alongside the Waymart parking-lot. The Slavic Missionaries served soup every day from 11am to 12 pm, twice on Saturdays and Thursdays. They handed-out blankets and galoshes on Wednesdays; Mondays they handed-out socks and mittens; Tuesdays and Fridays they scolded the poorhouse poor for being nonbelievers and on Sundays they prepared for Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays.
The poorhouse poor queued in front of the Slavic Mission. The soup-line circled the block crossways alongside the Waymart parking-lot. The Slavic Missionaries served soup every day from 11am to 12 pm, twice on Saturdays and Thursdays. They handed-out blankets and galoshes on Wednesdays; Mondays they handed-out socks and mittens; Tuesdays and Fridays they scolded the poorhouse poor for being nonbelievers and on Sundays they prepared for Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays.
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