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This writing was accepted for publication in the 94 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “a Link in the Chain” cc&d (v247) (the January / February 2014 Issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

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At Arby’s

Jackie Smith

Sheila’s uniform fits badly.
When she sweeps
The broom-handle bangs against
Iron table legs.
Next she churns mop in bucket,
Half-heartedly pressing on the wringer’s handle,
Squeezing gray water into gray water.
The strings slink along the floor,
Dragging bits of bread scattered
Like the sesame seeds that covered their tops.

She wants to talk.
She always wants to talk.
As she sweeps carelessly
Under another cantilevered table,
Her job coach finds her, hands her a rag,
Tells her to wipe the gray Formica tabletops.
“My mom wants me to move to a group home.
I think I will, too. I have a boyfriend there.”
What’s his name, Sheila?” I ask.
“We like to kiss.”
I forgot this is not a conversation.
“Would you like a refill?”
“No, thanks,” I say.
She likes getting refills better than sweeping.

I wonder, does Sheila know
Thousands of people die every day
In wars, from starvation?
Do the headlines haunt her?
Does she feel the helplessness of realizing
How few of us are like Mother Teresa,
Or Ghandi, or Reverend King?
Compassion fatigue:
Too much to feel for.
Starving strays on the rural route,
Fleeing from offered help,
Mrs. Ross, bent over in the rain
Coughing, thin sweater over thin body,
Hoping for the check
That will pay for heat again.
The three-year-old that lies in ICU
Burned by her mother’s boyfriend
Because she cried too much.

Sheila has tired of sweeping.
She is at my table again.
“Do you want a sack for your sandwich?”
“Yes, I do. Thank you.”
As I get up to leave,
She must notice the sadness on my face.
Laying a hand on my shoulder,
She pats me, a little too hard.
“Don’t worry. It will be alright.”

She knows.
Enough.

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