The pop cooler
has its usual frigid rumbling
and the intercom
picks up only the
echoing grumbling
of the air conditioner out back.
And the cow,
ever a target,
stands silent and invincible
in the field.
A half hour left,
but I know I'll get home late
because those same golfers
come in every time,
20 minutes 'til close,
and think they can finish off
a large bucket of golf balls.
And so I'll straighten the shelves,
ring up the register,
shut down the computer,
turn off the lights,
and wait to lock up,
while those same golfers
try to hit the tin cow
that stands as target practice.
Over a year of working late nights
and that cow has yet to be hit.

07/16/2000

Author's Note: Published in my college's literary magazine, Pulse.

Posted on 09/22/2001
Copyright © 2024 Amanda J Cobb