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.
Daniel W. Polk 