The birth of empathy...

I'm

Hungrier      than

boredom,    sitting   here

in the   store    room.    The

bleach is leaking somewhere

in the corner,  thanks  to   a

negligent  teenage   clock-

watcher – either the guy

(who   I   just  hate ),

with a  “beard”

like the

dust in this

unswept     corner

or  The     girl   (who   I

hate   but   ogle,   because

her lazy body is still velvet-

skinned with early-twenties

non-decay   –    that   she'll

drink away,   in   splashes

between bong breaths,

while   tickling

that guy's

baby- hair   chin

whisps – but for now,

she still   looks  cherry)

with   breast-  tops    like

half- baked    bread   rolls

rising      and         falling

softly    behind       her

cardboard  castle  of

cans & cellophane

something-or-

others.

“Hey man,” he says. From the left.

“John!” she says.         From the right

(She looks to his eyes; he looks to her eyes;

I look to her breasts – she smiles at him, in the blur,

sucking at the space between her thumb & pointer finger a
joint, which is make-believe). She coughs on the dust

(which   is   real  ).           He   grabs    his    broom

(useless to him as a dream- joint). “Just wanted
to say congrats.”    Which   he       means,

in a thoughtless way; his eyes say so.

They go  from  me

to a wall I seldom look up to see:

EMPLOYEE   OF   THE   MONTH...

And there's my face from three months ago*

When I was     looking past    a shitty plastic camera,

past a manager's   poor   aesthetic  insights,

to a Lathem  time-clock  machine.*

“Punch in; punch out – we're

a twenty minute bike

ride to your

campus!”

(This store became

my campus: the lion-share

of my course load, the most profound

life lesson –    as my time   turns into   money,

my money into Community College

credits, my credits into a degree;

just another time-card.)

“Employee of

the month, dude.

You should come

celebrate with

us behind the

dumpster –

at 4:20.”

“Right.

Thanks,

John. You

two keep pretty

punctual with that.”

“Hah!   Right, man.

You're okay.” I look

at the picture; he

walks her way.

There it is,

off-center

in a frame,

The man I am

(I hate him too;

I hate us all

the same).