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.


also everyone pls compliment the artwork that i ALSO scribbled on the back of a receipt - personally i think this is museum worthy