That shit job,
While you’re standing behind a cash register,
Making sandwiches,
Fitting shoes for customers, depending on style and size,
Trying to make do with flipping burgers, cleaning up after people,
Finding books at libraries or bookstores,
Almost asleep on the job,
Not upon the cash register, but in the staff lounge,
Still completely unable to think straight,
Racking that dough,
Staring at that green,
Greener than a babe’s eyes,
Probably managing school sanity, and that other stuff,
As you come home each night, smelling like mustard and mayonnaise, or leather and polish,
And you lie in a room quietly,
Waiting to close your eyes, hoping time will pass by,
Possibly hours, but more likely seconds.