POEM 11
the smell of the restaurant
sitting beside the glowing register
and the still pile of receipts.
stands near the lone register,
counting the stacks of cash.
banging rings in my ears.
being dragged across the floor
echoes throughout the room.
“Don’t forget to look out there,”
pointing to the dining room.
I went out and wiped all the tables
while watching the clock on the wall.
The cash drawer snaps shut.
My tired hands clock out.
walk out into the dark parking lot.
*Sound of Empty pockets (Yesier)
I remember the constant motion--
picking up and putting down again
zoning out before I ask myself
is this where I'm meant to be
I remember the yelling
that mixed with the heat of the kitchen grill
the sweating,
and only thinking about the low pay
waiting at the end of each week
I watched people in fresh suits
and polished watches
walk in with a smile on their faces
I remember the look
of the people I worked beside
not a smile in sight
workers speaking their miserable words
onto food they prepared
Wondering if the customers
would hear when they take a bite
Is this how it feels
to be on the other side of the counter?
I splash water on my face
trying to wash the hate away
and wonder
How many more days until I change
Into a man walking inside the door with a smile
*Identities have been removed for fear of violating HIPAA (Spud)
I remember the way it felt
Watching lives through that screen;
Only. Or hearing visitors talk.
They all said, “They’re really sick.”
Of course they were. They always are.
They say you really have to.
“The nature of the beast,”
I couldn't afford to leave.
I sometimes find myself outside of that room,
I remember picking patients up from chemo
Just days before... I remember
*Emergency Protocol (Maggie D.)
My friend the other day proclaimed they’d quit
their job — one of them, anyways. 5 droning years
at retail: cauterized. It made me start thinking
Wow, I’ve been at my job for almost 5 years, too
and how I feel like the very hungry caterpillar
who never metamorphosized,
who just sat around gorging
itself full at a stage of life
it was supposed to outgrow.
I’m a lifeguard. Maybe I should have started with that.
I work at an all-year indoor pool
which most people I tell tend to feel surprised over,
because the image in their heads tends to be
beach-bronzed, summer-fun, eye-candy...
But it’s more like
fluorescent lights, overheating, ass sore
from that dreadful plastic seat
I’ve practiced sitting in for hours
without zoning out. Lifeguarding is
like being the break glass in case of emergency glass
that's there just in case. Although the case has never
been cracked, just like when I come home from work
to the question How was work? The answer is always
Uneventful.
*Forget-Me-Nots (Francine Coffer)
I remember kneading dough with my mom, standing on a chair,
where the kitchen was warm from the large windows
that shined on the table we worked on
during a time in which spending time with her was my payment.
I remember how stories used to be my payment,
near the water listening to my grandpa talk about his past victories,
against Fishkind as he unhooked another fish, where he
joked about how he didn’t feel like eating that one today.
I remember when the eyes started to watch me,
in a tin box that smelled of meat, a smile stitched onto my mouth,
greeting the eyes that tore into my skin.
They watched me like a hawk looking at a rabbit,
while they waited for their, “Thank you, have a nice day”
as I handed them their food, thanking them,
but it felt like I was thanking them for tearing into my skin.
I remember working on a dusty computer,
in a room that smelled of grease and too bright lights
that burned into me, how the work I did gave me no pay,
only a “Thank you, Babygirl,” as I gave an annoyed hum.
I wanted him to leave me alone, wishing for him to leave.
I remember drawing, my passion being one of
my payments as I started a new commission, how the warm
room surrounded by memories and laughter, in a chair
that was warn but still gave support.
*Chilli Peppers (Cesar)
I remember taking a deep breath before going on my lunch break,
Closing my eyes upon entering the bathroom
that reeked of piss,
the floor glowing and the air too warm.
My eyes watered and I sure wasn’t hungry anymore.
Then, back at my station I watch
middle aged men yell at teens over their own mistakes,
their fragile masculinity shattering over anything,
Throwing hissy fits like my 7-year-old sister.
Are we even adults anymore?
Women ordering for their men
As they hide behind them.
Men still depend on their moms, apparently.
Raw steak shreds the air.
Sauce oozes between my hands.
The stench gags me.
I get told to prep more food.
It’s like they’re immune to saying please.
Looking around, I see three people laughing.
Another two on their phones.
I make the same amount of money as the others
but I do all the work.
More people walk in.
I have to take their orders.
Or course management won’t do shit about any of this.
Fuck Corporate.
*Jackson Heights Rd (Luis)
I remember wanting it all as a kid
Yet somehow every single dream got crushed.
Watching my parents
Go to work,
Exhausting their bodies daily.
This was the only truth in the world,
That all there is to being alive is being a slave,
Letting the man in power,
Dance in his office.
I sometimes think back to the nights,
Never was there one without my mother in pain
Energy sucked right out of her
All for pennies on the dollar.
My father stacking paper in order
To give us a different (not better) life,
Eight of us in a two-bedroom apartment
Holding each other while we slept,
And where I'm up all night
Talking to the pillows for quite some time
I can't even lie. The thought of a bigger house
Does get me high.
Poor, yet so rich. Rich with life...
*In The Office (Jaelyn)
I remember the time I was so focused
On work with my music blasting in my ears.
How I did not see or hear my coworkers, whom I don’t know
The names of, walking around into the tiny office I was in.
There's a mug on the desk in that room.
Technically, the desk and the mug are both my grandmother’s.
Who got me this job that I have,
Twelve dollars an hour to sit at a desk
And organize papers from A to Z
While she sits at home answering calls from
Her chair in the living room, her laptop
In front of her there near the TV instead of at the office
With me working with actual paper accounts.
The file cabinets hit the ceiling, the drawers shutting
With a bang as I sort people’s lives into folders.
Each file grows as the calendar flips forward,
Some eventually replaced with new names
That I don’t bother to remember slapped
Onto an empty file, starting the cycle over.
When that awkward empty feeling creeps up my throat
I remind myself that a diet of Ramen could be on the horizon.
My mother’s wallet is not mine to rely on forever.
So I walk through the shop and do what I need to do
And go home to the roof over my head.
Where’s my second opinion? (Hudson Borzeniatow)
I remember when I graduated high school
Scolded for asking why college is important
Is it a sin to ask that?
I already know my grandmother’s
Rehearsed answer
“You go to college because people will hire you.”
The average entry level job
Now requires over 3 years of experience
Job applications have become little more
than a form of extra revenue
Selling your data to brokers:
“You’ll hear back from us shortly.”
So how do you get a job?
My grandmother certainly has her opinions.
“Just go in there and ask for the manager.
Tell him he must hire you.”
Like a time capsule from the 1960’s
Unaware of the environment it now resides
From when our future wasn’t sold out
The can kicked down the road
The can is still rolling
The foot stronger than ever
Until its run over by a pickup truck
“Why didn’t the can ask it to move”
Retail management (Marisol)
The time I had to begin
My financial stability
Last Black Friday season
I had to start worrying
About how to pay for
My own gas, groceries
Box cutter to box
Box to my feet, it fell on me
The box is heavy, I was startled and said “Ouch”
I had to go out on the sales floor
Give people good customer service
Even though they are rude
Kids running around
Tipping over T-stands and rounders
My boss keeps complaining
About how much needs to get done
But is stuck in the break room for hours
I’m putting out new product
Putting go backs from the fitting rooms away
As I watch little kids using the step stools
As cars, racing them to the front.
Tripping over the lifted tiles,
I hear their parents scream at them
To behave correctly.
The phone keeps ringing so I have to answer.
Then I wonder
Where is everyone else at?
"Blessed" (Ava)
I remember my mom telling me we were “blessed.”
Money never worried me.
I always received three meals a day,
And a pantry full of snacks.
My dad worked hard
Working twenty-four hour shifts,
My mom cleaning and cooking at home
Taking care of my sister and I.
Money was talked about in secret.
I had my own money, but my parents supported me.
I turned sixteen and got a variety of jobs.
Babysitting, cashier, barista, and coaching,
Beginning to support myself.
It felt good not having my parents pay,
Even though they would not have complained.
I began to worry about the future.
My parents offered to pay for my education.
I felt blessed.
I now understand what my mom meant,
I was blessed,
Blessed with parents who supported me.
I want to bless others,
A calling to help,
Because someone blessed me.
Underpaid (Lilly)
I remember the feeling of old eyes on me
The salsa stains on my pants
The remnants of the old man’s burrito
on my shirt. But they didn’t care
Just watching the young girl with
the eyes of a lion hunting prey
Filling the tubs with the dirty dishes
Beaten by servers commands
and then receiving two dollars from each
cheapskate who didn’t know how to
do their job correctly. But I should
“never complain, just work harder”
Says the borderline alcoholic managers
who only care about which employee
they will take home to bed that night.
I remember my back aching and my
irritated mood every single day, only to
be given enough to afford a free bag of
rocks from the parking lot. I remember
the tight, blue skinny jeans not made
for my comfort, but to catch the eyes
of the old men at the bar. Except their money
was going to the useless, drunken bartender.
What I don’t remember is why I stayed
but now months later, I still smell the spilled salsa
and feel the predatory eyes of cheapskates upon me.
Pride Container – By Pancho Garza
I remember being in theater class
Working with my group
Efficiently completing our tasks
With our teacher complementing us
We had pride in the work
Then the group ended, separating us
I worked for another that was cold
Scraps of metal that piled
Standing still bending what was set
Bending only the metal and foot
I was left to bend and so I bent
I did so as quickly as it allowed
I did the task but wondered instead,
Asking for a new task
Despite having done it
He seemed upset that I was done
As though a seagull was watching him
He swayed and disappeared
Appearing once more
Lugging me about like baggage
Setting me down
In a place just as cold as last
I walked out with a small paper
The paper weighing less than I thought
Identities have been removed for fear of violating HIPAA (Spud)
I remember the way it felt
Watching lives through that screen;
Only. Or hearing visitors talk.
They all said, “They’re really sick.”
Of course they were. They always are.
They say you really have to.
“The nature of the beast,”
I couldn't afford to leave.
I sometimes find myself outside of that room,
I remember picking patients up from chemo
Just days before... I remember
I took to the morgue.
Food Court (Megan)
I remember that day in the food court.
We were slammed and struggling.
We called for supervisors
and managers yet no one answered.
I remember that second week of work,
looking into my bank account to see
the check deposited. I felt so proud.
I got to go home, and show my parents
I remember that day in the food court.
How our oven broke and we were so slow
that I was cleaning to pass the time.
I remember thinking, ‘I’m going to save
all of my money. I’m going to get a car,
a home to call my own. I can do it.’
I remember that day in the food court,
my coworker ranting to me endlessly
over issues that barely concern her.
I remember my parents, upon seeing
that first paycheck, give lecture after lecture
on saving money, building credit, financing
a home, and caring for my future family.
I remember all of those days in the food court,
how my feet ached and my muscles burned,
knowing I would be sore and bruised for weeks,
but still prideful of finally starting a life of my own.
My Canvas’ Dream (Mar'te)
I remember for a very long time I would draw for other people.
The thought of being able to make a living from
creating what other people wanted, because they thought
I was good enough to make their ideas a reality. I’ve
always struggled with making my own ideas, so
maybe drawing other’s ideas would fill that void, that blank
canvas in my mind. It started out great, the feeling of my
practice actually paying off. There was reward for the effort
I was putting into pushing myself. The stress of
having nothing, being hungry or not having anything
to show for trying to improve my skills for a time
outweighed any other feelings. At some point,
picking up my pen to draw on my blank canvas felt
like a chore. My canvas was not only meant for
the ideas of others, but what was I if I were to only make
what I wanted and make nothing for it. Two conflicting
sides one wondering if I create for myself, but made
no money from it would make me feel like a failure.
On the other side knowing that making art for others, on
things I did not care about would show in its quality.
Money and passion have a way of breaking each other down.
For me, it has changed my view on the value of my creations
forever.
The Foreman (Olivia)
I remember my childhood
and being very upset that my father
was always away, on overtime
or on cross country trips.
Never understanding his desire
to climb to the top of the roughest
mountain, I had to realize that his
goals were fueled by the “American
Dream” so many immigrants
reach for. Through so much labor,
that sweat the tears of my grandmother
off his back, he became the embodiment
of that American Dream. I had never once
saw him falter, regardless of the pillars
he had to scale for the chance
to be noticed. As a server, the money
is never guaranteed while the whole
time your wage is dependent
on someone’s moods and interpretations.
Despite the inconsistencies, the work
teaches me incredible patience, humility
and discipline daily because I’d rather
adopt my fathers’ attitude
over a negative mindset.
The Stagnant Girl (Zoie)
I remember the days where
mom and dad sat around the table.
Papers in hands murmuring
about bills and tuition.
Fun things were saved for holidays
and celebrations.
Until mom was fired, then newly hired
for a better money-maker job.
Suddenly I didn’t have to think money,
and I received more gifts.
But that anxiety never left me,
it made me check every price tag twice.
Today, I horde any wealth I gain
like a dragon and it’s gold.
My stomach feels like a storm
when I purchase items over 30.
The brain whispers through my ears,
“is it worth it?” “is it really?”
Over and over it sings
getting me to leave behind the treat.
When I got a job with income
like a steady stream flowing through a river,
my confidence soured to the sky.
Until budgets were cut down, and so was I.
HOME (Garrett)
I remember holding the wood
I’d lift it up by my hands
Still soft and free of callus
At the rich age of nine.
I’d been vexed when my grandpa
Gave me a two-dollar bill
Something which’d been generous
For my arduous twelve minutes
Of intense and exhausting labour.
The smile of my great grandma
At the sight of her freshly trimmed lattice
On her beautiful back lawn of her home.
I remember that cursed building
Where corpses are ferried and sliced
Put on display for a crowd in passing.
Not helped by the new manager
Who’d choose a target every shift
To bully and abuse
I hated those shoes
Which were caked with death
Life that was to be sold then forgotten
It’d been no surprise I quit
As many did and do
It’s a lot of work for little
A home for the very few
Money Doesn’t Buy Happiness (Autumn)
I remember being young maybe fifteen
Walking into an interview for a job
at my local grocery store and being so nervous
I felt nervous, inadequate, but my mom
Pushed me to be confident and get the job
Little did I know this would be the beginning
of a four-year relationship at this store
and how working there would change me
I had no idea how self-absorbed the world could be
How I could ask someone how their day
was and they would simply look at me blankly
I hated how callous people were
I despised how people let one bad moment
in their day ruin everything for them
I would be standing at my register with a smile
and greet them kindly and eyes of bitterness
Would be my only indicator that I was heard
My knees would be aching and back sore
My head pounding and stomach growling
And yet I always returned a kind word
It simply dumbfounded me the anger
in people's hearts for complete strangers
I guess that all goes to show you
can have the world and yet have nothing at all
Summer Mow (Canye)
I remember cutting those lawns,
scorching heat touching my skin
like I was directly in hell.
I remember pulling that cord,
Yanking at the old exhausted engine,
More times than a quarter back going for the super bowl.
I remember feeling the sore blisters on my hands,
Stinging and hurting,
Everytime i grip the hot & heavy lawn mower.
I remember wiping the sweat & dirt off my face
Just to breath again,
grass getting in my mouth.
I remember the long lines of mowed grass,
strays glowing in the haze,
Blowing away from the air,
Like they were never needed.
I remember feeling the breath of fresh air in the building
Like a spell from the ice king,
Relaxing the skin that was bathed in 90 degree sunlight.
I remember sitting in the break room
Trey cracking jokes like usually does,
us Barely being able to hold the water bottles we have.
I remember opening my check
Flipping through the clean shiny bills,
arms too sore to barely count them.
I remember saying goodbye to heat
Bugs & little checks chasing after me,
But the fresh air needed me now.
Wayfarer (Charles)
I remember the gas pump as it siphoned my money
Thinking about how times have changed
When I was young, I had joined the cub scouts
We would have fun whittling soap and shooting bb-guns
We also learned how we could be better people
And together we had found out how to better other as well
Then, suddenly, I found I had gotten older
Going to summer camp to improve myself
We would move around camp being eaten by mosquitos
The heat being nearly unbearable as we sat and learned
In the blistering heat
The staffer would drone on about basketweaving
Then once I was past the droning I had a project
Something to help a house of God after a disaster
After a long arduous week of planning I had started the project
We had spent over one-hundred services hours completing a project
Then I remember as I had gotten older
In high school I joined a group, a corps
The strain of responsibility and duty
The long hours that required caffeine enough to kill a horse
Driving all over the green Earth
Getting those that I need to where we need
The ever increasing cost of fuel was like a lamprey
Sucking on the life blood of the need for transportation
The Sweat (Haley)
I remember the sweat,
Drop after drop falling from…everywhere...
Into oil-slicked flat tops
Or bubbling puddles of butter,
My face seasoned with the daily struggle...
I was the only woman there.
All I knew was cooking and cleaning then.
I tried so hard to escape that inevitable outcome,
The desperation of what's available.
Houskeeper by morning, sauté cook by evening,
A servant to the wealthy
In order to keep my car moving.
Measley crumbs. It’s not enough
But I keep showing up because
Where would I be if I stopped?
The burning heat stains my arms and hands,
Men towering over me, looking down at me,
Questioning every grain of salt I use.
“Less bitchin’, more kitchen,” they'd laugh.
All walks of life lived in that grease pit,
Where I developed a smoking habit,
Then spent my pay within days--
But how else to cope
With those endless summer nights,
The pains in my calves.
I couldn't keep living like this
But the bills don’t care
About burnout, fatigue or depression.
All that matters is that the man
At the top is able to more than fill his belly.
My Time is Worthless (Vinny)
I remember what life was like before today,
Now that there’s this awful sense of dread
And loneliness I cannot escape.
Nothing helps. It all just makes me sicker--
the spiraling down further than I want to go,
knowing I will go down even further.
Money, the unforgiving nightmare.
I’ve never have enough and clearly most of us never will.
Who among you are satisfied?
(Just shut up and place the fries in the bag.)
Plus, no one wants to hear what I have to say
about my mundane existence,
the problematic schemes I endeavor to undertake
in order to improve my financial situation
(it's never enough).
Rarely have I been satisfied with the work itself,
the selling of my time and health to a corporation.
Can I actually buy happiness, since there's no time leftover?
Or do I just have to keep working for someone else’s bottom line?
A few dollars here, a dish of pennies on my dresser.
Working isn’t even working anymore (is it theft?).
The illusion that everything will be fine has simply vanished.
It's not even doing something for nothing anymore.
It's less than that. It's doing nothing for nothing.
It's less than nothing.
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