The snap trap mundane
slap of minimum wage life
was murdering my
prefrontal cortex—
tamped and pulled and frothed into
nothing. Yep. Nothing.
Watercoloring
with ballooned belly, jolly-
white-fur-faced “Santa”
between lattes was
sanity. We quipped with words—
mostly in haiku-
form.
He was like my
grandfather. I didn’t yet
know that raucous slurp
of entitlement.
I did not know the slurring
sludge—the earth lust—how
later he would ask
if I would have a “quickie”
with him during work.
He was slinking slip-
shod switchblade “kindness”. Unzipped
synapses misfired.
I lacked pithy words—
boundaries to shed skin, to shake
off black cinder greed.
My anger teetered
between agency and help-
lessness. The last won:
I simply asked his
order then made a caramel
mocha in silence.
No comments:
Post a Comment