I guess that's why they call it the blues

A poem about break rooms, eating shit, and other things.

It's playing over the loudspeaker.

There are five in the break room–

three oldies eating dinner and a teenager on his phone, slurping soda.

The Joker’s on TV,

gleefully dancing on rainbows–

Elton John laments.

It’s 9 pm on a Friday.

I put my book down, slug my grainy coffee, and sigh.

Bukowski’s yammering on

about alcohol, women, and life

in his semi-poetic way.

The kid in the corner hasn’t looked up in twenty-five minutes,

the old folks mash their chicken tenders and remain bitter–

Elton continues to pour his heart out.

My break’s almost over,

so I wash my mug and head to the bathroom.

I stare at myself in the mirror and wonder what I’m doing here;

drinking freeze-dried coffee, reading Bukowski, and feeling sorry for myself.

The old folks’ shit echoes down the hall-

‘Jim fucked up badly, ya hear?’

‘What an idiot that Jim is,’ they go on.

Well, I like Jim.

He isn't a bad guy, he's just a little slow— he always tries his best…

it’s more than those old farts can claim.

Elton whispers, ‘It can’t get worse.’

I try to believe him, splash my face, hold my breath, and brace for the warehouse floor.

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