By Kevin Bowen
Your hero's welcome was cleaning
floors at the local bank
for minimum wage.
A little joke to start the day,
leaning on a pole, a train
rambling through a runnel,
a blue janitor's uniform from Sears
replacing olive green.
You were reading Stendhal,
stuck in your back pocket like a confession.
Each day, seven A.M., you begin your tour
sweeping tape across the computer room,
everyone watching, you could tell.
Knock first before checking
the washrooms for paper stock
empty trash pails for executives.
If the knew the murder in your head...
Lunch was a cafeteria filled
with girls on six inch heels
and men in blue suits.
You arched as you passed through the line.
Back by the loading docks
you smoked your wrath up,
watched armored trucks bring
the day's deposits from the branches .
How far could you get, you wondered,
Wednesdays mopping the main vault,
stacks of bills rising in piles on the walls.
How far?
No comments:
Post a Comment
If you include links in your comment the whole comment will likely be deleted as spam. You have been warned! Otherwise, dialoguing with these poems is encouraged.