Evening Shift
The easy laughter of working men
drifts into my back window.
At once I am 18, the girl from the office
taking a smoke break in a smear of fluorescent light
outside the hissing factory.
I want to be an artist in black
who has everything she needs
but with the sweat running down the small of my back
in this too-short polyester dress
it is too easy to joke;
easy to pick the one with the wallet wife
and the key to his buddy's place;
easy to give him the one thing
without seeming to want to;
easy to pretend I care a little
until I walk out to the cab at dawn
and don't look back.
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