Upward Mobility is for Escalators and Hanging Sliders Belted Out of Fenway
Just another dog drip job;
food prep extraordinaire,
washer of lettuce
and peeler of the potato
at some over-priced restaurant
that caters to over-dressed
assholes
who give each other enemas
in Saran wrap
but complain about spotted
glasses.
Before that,
it was that pizza joint
along Paris St.
with the front sign
three quarters burnt out
and buzzing.
That mouse excreta denizen of highschool drop outs
and pock-marked welfare moms that gave all their children
stripper names like Candy, Bambi,
or Angel
(and just as well),
where the manager trained you
to lay the pepperoni on in perfect circles
like you were doing a heart transplant,
like the fate of world was in your hands
instead of greasy pig death
with white fatty bits
in the middle
for $6.85/hr.
(with a 10 cent premium
on weekends).
The true million man army
is not in China,
not only in
China.
It is everywhere
everyday:
pumping gas
stocking shelves
sweeping floors
washing dishes…
And I am to be counted
among the ranks,
what a nice thought.
To belong to something
like boy scouts or
the YMCA.
But I’m a little odd,
you see,
an impostor among the parkers of cars,
the trimmers of lawns
and hair
and hedges.
I like to sit in Laundromats
and watch the clothes go around
in circles.
Rubbing scented cream
on my hands,
then smelling it
for cancer.