I step out of the blue-gray world of the office
To the yellow-gray world of August smog.
Greedy for my hour, begrudgingly-bestowed
My hour away from shrill co-workers and the stab
of the copier's light that always tweaks the migraine-beast
lurking in my brain. My skewered eyeballs still watering,
I grope in my purse for my sunglasses. I am a weak vampire.
The evening is my domain.
Disembodied, I go to the drive-through window
suppressing the usual guilt: Laziness. Empty calories.
Wasted gas. With this diet, it's amazing I don't have rickets.
I have to shout my order over the roar of the other cars
vibrating in this space like a concrete and chrome hive.
The drive-through takes twenty minutes.
A dozen of us trapped in a narrow run like livestock in a chute.
I want out, but I also want my salt-laden, deep-fried fix.
I want the caffeine and the sugar rush
to numb me and pat me up
like a scarecrow.
I finally get to the window and pay.
She gives me my soda, and I expect my meal soon after.
But I wait. It isn't ready.
Isn't ready.
Isn't ready.
The line of cars behind me lengthens.
I can feel the other drivers staring daggers at the back of my head,
wondering what one little woman could have possibly ordered
that’s taking so long.
I concentrate on watching a kid with a broom and long-handled dustpan
sweeping up the parking lot.
"Ma'am, could you please pull around?"
I like how they let me pay first, then tell me
my order's been delayed.
Here is the hot vinyl under my legs,
exhaust fumes make my head swim.
Here is the dirty windshield.
I can't look at myself in the rearview mirror. Not in this light.
And the moisture beads my cup,
inside, the ice is melting gently,
diluting my Coke into water.
Two songs go by on the radio. A third, really long,
King Crimson. Psychedelic chords jangle,
at odds with the world I am caught in.
Blue collar, white collar, pink.
Color doesn’t matter. Not in this light.
The point is, you’re leashed.
Would you like fries with your scraps?
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 7 of 7
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definite, not feking definate
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Im glad there`s a point.
I see definate traces of Bukowski within this work,such as,"The evening is my domain" or,"With this diet,it`s amazing i dont have rickets" and,of course,the perfunctory nature of life itself,although i feel you use ME and MY too often which,in my opinion,is out of sync with the last line that ought to read,"The point is,i`m leashed.Still,it`s infinitely better than anything else i`ve read on here,albeit i`ve only recently joined -
Not my usual type of poem...
but I like it. I think we've all (well most of us) have felt that pressure to just get through the day. I like line 3. I've had jobs like that where it was hard enough to get "pit stop" break let alone an hour for lunch. I also like the refernce to the migraine-beast and the way the lights "tweak" it. I can relate to that sometimes.
I also like the "drivers staring daggers" part, because you know full well more than half of the people behind you are blameing you for them taking so long to fill your order. The I like how the let me pay first... reminds me of my dad. He HATED paying before he got what he ordered. I love the reference to the different colors of collars not mattering because either way your not in control. I love the last line. Self explanitory. I think I actully got this one. Thanks for putting it out there.
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Thanks, BB. You may have noticed, I don't have a particular style, or rather, I have a few styles that I use depending on what sort of poem I'm writing. This is my narrative style-- goes down easy, and I pull no punches. I'm glad you read it and got something out of it.
Pie
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hey c-pie
well for one i like these kind of poems, more auto-biographal and narrative for you, but with your signature flair. and we've all been there thru the drive thru, which is where the rat-race reaches its apex. may we look foward to being unleashed and some salad days. ps-nix the authors notes, this couldn't be clearer.
dave -
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Thanks, Dave. I'm glad you saw this one. Sorry I'm not around more-- as you can see from this piece, my leash is short. I put the author's notes because, as usual, I was very insecure about posting a poem of this type.
Here's to salad days.
Lauren
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understand the frusteration.
but you should find someone who likes these kinda poems.
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