He stands behind the counter,
His dirty hands in his pockets
Glaring at me from behind shadowed eyes.
He doesn’t want to be here
Anymore than I do.
Out of his parched lips is stated
A price I think I can handle.
And as I count out the change
I carry in my over-laden pockets
He rubs his nose with a swollen
Wrist before packing my donuts.
I thank him for his superior service
And turn away.
He must wonder if he’ll ever see
Me again.
Even if he did, I probably
Wouldn’t recognize him as he
Is yet another of the faceless
Youth who try so hard to get
Ahead, but fall back with every
Baby step, in this world of bitter
Tears and warm beer.
