A mass of flies
And me, the metal dish gateway
The last stop before their swinging door exits
In this twighlight neon hunger show.
Pulling up in double tire ecstasy
With dimples in both palms
They consider quarters and dimes
In between the pulse of the halogen harmony hum.
Nauseated with the mind sear
Of the momentary acknowledgement
As they press the sweat stained bills against my flesh..
I regurgitate change and wait
For that last gasp of relief
When the door swings closed behind them.
Customer service never felt so good.
Author notes
Pretty straight forward. People are rude. Some of my co-workers are rude back.. I just write about it.
Written July 31st, 2006
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lascivious
gergeous lady, we are such working girls...all these poems about sweat and flies and the service industry...ahaha we should collaborate and write a poem-book about the trials of teen-age slaves to customer service...I'm thinking about becoming a migrant worker...care to join me? College doesn't give me that jump of inspiration and I'm thinking perhaps I was really meant to be a carny...but this is getting off topic...I can't really critique though college reduces my brain to pudding-matter. But honestly, it's so, what's the word, tactile I guess...earthy and human...in otherwords made of sweat- and blood-stuff rather than wispy spirit bits...no Keatsian lace...just, reality. Mmm...I'm still not getting it...carnal I guess...pertaining to the flesh. MRx -
Excellent
Hi AbortMe, awesome write, enjoyed reading, Laura
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