By: Thomas Bess jr.
waiting in the blackness for my alarm clock to go off,
the screaming banshee opens my eyes to pierce the blackness of my four walls.
i see the ghost that is my work clothes resting lazily on my chair;
starched white shirt, black pants, black tie.
out of the apartment.
i wait for the bus.
i waited and cursed my local transit system.
i was late yesterday
i left thirty minutes earlier than yesterday
and i was still late
later than the day before
i felt a cold numbness
i imagined the look on my boss’ face when i tell him the bus was late again
i smile an insane smile to myself
i held my gas station coffee -- sweating palm
the humid air clings to my business casual
gravel and dust make my dress shoes look lousy
i stand congregated with the other losers
waiting for the bus it comes.
no smiling faces
the bus stops
quontavious, i don't think we’re in kirkwood anymore
store-brand coffee brewing in employee lounge
a can with a sign that says 25 cent donation
i put in nothing. i don't have it to give and i need the coffee.
a judging fat blob gauks as i stir in the sugar.
"fuck you", i think in my head.