poem of the day 04.01.11

no peace

caught
between the driftwood of flesh and bone
second shift america
between the two meat cutters
from the deli
smelling of dead flesh and coleslaw
bullshitting the evening bus ride home
i watch them banter
in their boar’s head hats
and greasy smocks
they talk the tired talk
of the eternal weekday
fuck this and fuck them
spreading their pent up ire
society at their mercy
after a twelve hour shift
because there is no one else left to serve
only monday they say
like there’s been a death in the family
but the rest of us sad assholes
know what they mean
and when they get home
bitch better have dinner
on
the
table,
man
because i’m hungry
and them kids better be in bed
because i ain’t playin’ tonight
the way i feel, there’s gonna be hell to pay
my stomach is rumbling too
i want to tell them
or maybe it is something else
a fire or unresolved passion
but the meat cutters are talking about
mixing beer and tequila together
they are playing each other samba music
one earbud in each ear
the sound carries all over the bus
and there is no peace this evening
for any of us
the meat cutters
me
the lady with the pink hair
the giggling mexican woman on her phone
the jobless and weary
the gap-toothed union saint
asleep at the wheel
or the teenage girl, alone,
writing s.o.s’s
with her thumbs
on one of those glowing devices
meant to make our lives
so much
simpler.