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Waiting for Work

John T. Hitchner

Mornings it’s cigarettes, coffee, and want-ads.
Throat burns like messages for payments overdue.
Hands steady, though,
as when he held snap lines and levelers.
“Good job,” the boss had said. “See you tomorrow.”
Things balanced then.
The center held.

Afternoons it’s cigarettes and beer,
waiting for calls back,
waiting for the unemployment check.
No direct deposit.
He likes to hold the check,
touch the paper’s surface and colors.
The amount? Never enough.
No balance there.

Evening—beer, cigarettes, games at the club.
Hands steady enough for eight-ball
and maybe a few riffs, if the guys let him sit in.
Onstage, he closes his eyes.
Fingers play his soul,
but the band is too much percussion,
too much like the boss’s “I have to let you go. Sorry.”
“Sorry,” he tells the band. “Gotta go.”

Home:
Messages? None.
History Channel? Stonehenge:
monoliths like faceless gods above land,
lintels raised, set in place,
circle and center, sun and moon aligned.
His hands flex.
Fingers imagine surfaces of greatness and time.
All in balance.

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