You don't know me.
You know nothing about me
other than I work at a gas station,
at least during the summer,
and that is as far or as much
as you apparently want to know.

And somehow you think that
that gives you the right,
you in your BMW's and Mustangs,
in your expensive suits
and country-club golfwear,
to presume that I am lower than you
and you can treat me
as dirt beneath your pedicured feet,
walking over me with an expression of distaste.

God forbid I mar your perfect shoes.

Never mind my history, my life story.
Never mind the grades I used to and still make.
Never mind the talents, the strengths,
the dreams, the hopes, the fears,
the pride, the passion, the intelligence
of this warm body behind the counter.
I work here and am forced to serve you,
so you must be better than me.

But at least I wipe my feet off when I walk in a door.

06/01/2003

Posted on 06/02/2003
Copyright © 2025 Amanda J Cobb