working

poetry scribbled on the back of three different receipts

head itches

feet hurt

no matter what shoes i wear

i pretend it’s my fault —

my genes, my impatience

but my feet don’t like standing for seven hours

(eight hours today!!) — let me leave

bells dinging

babies crying

questions, so many questions

i can’t think

not past the CLICK of the price gun

the SLAM of the register

past the

how’s it going / cash or card / would you like your receipt / have a good one

it pounds in my head

it plays on a loop

high pitched, dripping with enthusiasm

i annoy myself

tired,

feet hurt

head hurts

there is silence

inside

but outside is the trashy “clean pop songs” playlist blasting from four different stores at once

all the good stores have swear words these days

“society is declining”

they care about the art —

the quality is bad

maybe —

maybe because the artists cannot think beyond

the CLACKS and SLAMS and the stupid questions

trapped behind a register

feet sore,

brain numb

working seven (eight!!) hours with illegal breaks and no chair

and nothing interesting

or maybe it’s their fault —

their genes, their impatience

no one wants to work these days

or create good art either.