Working Retail

We put away the suits and the dresses
and the maternity jeans
until tiny, round bruises
form on our hands from the metal heads
of hangers and we've sweated
off all of our makeup and our feet pulse
with each trip the blood takes to the heart
and back-- to the fitting room
and back-- we repeat
until we are rallied to pull merchandise
on spitefully named “buddy carts,” too
heavy and bulky for one, thinking
“I better not die, here,
in the stock room, being crushed
by a box of Alfred Dunner sweaters,”
and we look back on our day
in numbers, leaving
the clothes behind, knowing
that every angle each shirt faces
will be exactly the same all night
and into the morning,
even if we like to pretend
Corduroy Bear
is real.


1 comment:

  1. OMG, this describes my life.
    I love the imagery!


Constructive criticism welcome.