Poem 409

See Poem 360 for earlier encounters of the sorting kind … this might be a little uncharitable about some of my co-workers but I do include myself in the last stanza …

In Private Boxes

The fat girl is saying again
she hardly ever eats chocolates
         brown stains around her mouth
         at eight in the morning

the supervisor with inflamed eyes
stutters and jerks at his desk
smell of raw alcohol
minced through his skin

the other is worse
wherever he walks
                                        you breathe in
sour milk sweat for minutes

sorting alongside me
Gary congratulates himself
he's one out of the box
a truly well balanced man
                                                     he repiled 
houses for years
       (once held one up with his back
       when the
       jacks slipped)
                                    now he's with us
in the basement while he perfects 
his betting system

this broken-backed room under the fluorescents
is stale with dreams
with the lies we tell
every hour