For me, if you breathe please and thank you, I will fall asleep. If you frolic obnoxious, if you drop kick books at me, if you spill coffee on my boss's vest, yes, I will kiss your boots. The courteous patron becomes the forgotten. It's the headache, the crass handful the staff member remembers mid-dinner. It's you in the crewneck with the faded alumni card. It's you in the crewneck with a stack of back catalogs hiding your face. I'm holding your hand as you stab my side. I bleed out and check out your books. You drum your fingers on my forehead. I return to you your card and remind you of due dates. My brain is a name tag. You remove it through my nostrils. I cry such rainful joy as I waive late fees and hate to clock out. |
Archives
March 2020
Categories
All
|