be nice to me or i will break your shirt’s extra button, your polo, arrow, brooks brothers, van heusen, they arrive by the armload, stained, smelling like sweat & drakkar noir, but usually i’m in the back where it’s 91 degrees in windowless july scrubbing collars, tagging light or heavy starch, searching pockets for misplaced five dollar bills, i work alone, no music, 1pm to 5pm, three days a week, $4.25 an hour, my mom got me the job, wanted me to experience real life with ms. goodson who runs the place with her eye lash extensions & pall mall cigarette breaks, danny, she calls out with a richmond, va drawl, i need help up front, blind man tapping near our front door, clothes tumbling to the floor, i guide him, take his wrinkled jumble of pants & shirts, they reek like he’s worn them for a week straight, we get him sorted, later watch him tapping toward the bus stop, for a second i try to imagine his life in darkness, then i take a long sip from my lukewarm big gulp & get back to work.
Tag: 1987
Embarrassing Moment, July 1987
Summer asphalt, I feel it against my cheek, warm with embarrassment and sun’s absorption, after toe snags into pothole and I tumble face first into the road’s crosswalk. This, while holding two Slurpees in July, neither spills, miracle of frozen blue sugar ice. Honking cars and trucks applaud, recognizing my brief journey from sky to ground, entertainment while waiting for red to turn to green. I rise slowly, take a small bow, try to grin, clutch the drinks and walk again.
Daniel W. Polk 