The Kroger on Marietta Street (Three Miles from Murder Kroger)

Lyrics

[Intro]
Alright. Check it. Rudy Champ on the scene.
This is 1200 Marietta Street Northwest.
See that sign? Big, blue, friendly.
But a sign doesn't tell you the whole story.
Never does.

[Verse 1]
The glass doors slide open with a polite little whoosh.
And bam. Air conditioning hits you like a promise.
Sixty-eight degrees on the dot, I'd bet.
Smells like floor cleaner and rotisserie chicken.
A clean smell. A managed smell.
The organic avocados are stacked like cannonballs.
The kombucha section is longer than the beer aisle.
Everyone's pushing a cart that doesn't have a wobbly wheel.
This is the future, they tell you.
Shiny, and sorted, and safe.

[Chorus]
But listen close.
You do the math.
You draw the line.
This whole beautiful box, this temple of kale and craft seltzer...
It's exactly three miles west of Murder Kroger.
Three miles. As the crow flies.
Or as the Escalade drives.
Three miles west of the ghost on Ponce de Leon.

[Verse 2]
Look around. Young professionals in yoga pants.
New dads with the baby strapped to their chest.
Buying pre-cut pineapple for the new condo.
Nobody here remembers the stories from the parking lot over on Ponce.
They tore that one down, you know. 2014.
Built a new one on top. Tried to wash the name away.
Next door to this place? A Blockbuster Video.
Empty for a decade. The blue awning is still there.
A different kind of ghost.
Nobody sees it.
They're too busy checking the expiration date on the almond milk.

[Chorus]
But the map doesn't lie.
The city remembers.
You draw the line.
This whole beautiful box, this temple of kale and craft seltzer...
It's exactly three miles west of Murder Kroger.
Three miles. As the crow flies.
Or as the Escalade drives.
Three miles west of the legend on Ponce de Leon.

[Bridge]
You can build new walls.
You can pour new concrete.
You can call it 'BeltLine Kroger' or 'Westside Market' or whatever focus-group name you want.
But you can't erase the psychic geography.
The city has a memory bone.
And three miles ain't that far.
It's just far enough to forget.
If you choose to.

[Outro]
Yeah.
Three miles.
I walk out into the parking lot.
The heat from the asphalt hits my shins.
The refrigerated trucks are humming their low song.
Three miles.
Just a straight shot east.
Don't forget it.