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wound salt

Paul Tanner

one of the meatheads in the warehouse
stuck his knife too deep into a box
when he was unpacking the delivery,
slashing four bags of salt open

and then
one of your idiot shop floor colleagues
put all four bags out on the shelf,
so now there’s salt
raining down the shelves
and onto the floor

and you’re there
trying to sweep it all up
when one of the supervisors comes up to you
and says:
get that cleaned up!
what’s it look like I’m doing? you say,
showing him the brush in your hand.
well, yeah, he says, hurry up about it!
and having earned his annual salary today,
pisses off.

he’s right you know,
a nearby old lady wags a finger at you.
safety’s important in a busy place like this,
she says helpfully
clay face smiling up,
daring you to respond.
you don’t rise to the bait.
you carry on sweeping É
hello? she waves a hand
an inch from your face.
I’m talking to you!

sorry friend,
looks like you’re going to have to acknowledge her:
I appreciate your feedback,
you tell her through clenched teeth
then carry on sweeping É

there’s no need to be sarcastic! she says.
I was only giving you a bit of constructive advice!

ok, you stop sweeping.
is there any reaction I can possibly make
that won’t offend you?

I BEG YOUR PARDON? she says.

and having got your answer
you quit,
strip
and run naked through the streets,
screaming for Cthulhu to smite them all
until you’re tackled to the pavement
and a needle stabs your arm
and you wake up in a nice padded cell.

the world would be a better place
if everyone had one
to go to,

you know,
instead of shops?

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