Cathy and I converge
on the break room.

The Scotsman is
ice belly empty, his
little wire mechanisms
strewn on the waxy tile.
A workman kneels
in the drip pool.
Bleach buzz cut,
croc hunter shorts,
shit stompin’ boots,
drum stick ear bones.

Cathy trades a look, an eye roll
and I’m thinking;
Cause he’s like the third one
and why in hell
don’t they just buy a new one?

Cathy and coffee,
clear in the hallway
and air pfffts her balloon lips.
It’s his jungle groove
that’s got her amused.
She thinks it’s us and him

No matter the years,
the times told, still
no one knows me here.

I want to burst in a
Tourette’s verse volley
of little hissing acids,
maybe lift a skull cap,

walk away lighter.

06/30/2007

Author's Note: Socio-economic lines are fun!

Posted on 06/30/2007
Copyright © 2026 David Hill