High School Poetry: Part Deux

You Are Now Entering the Supermarket Zone


It is freezing in here!
It's
summer and I'm wearing two
sweatshirts
inside this ice box that is
literally hell
frozen over.

I'm nowhere near the frozen food section.

The incessant ding of this
cash register that
never fails to
shut down
in the middle of a
HUGE purchase
is driving me
up the Metfood wall.

It's 3:00. I close at nine.

Today, a blue haired lady
turned the same shade while
yelling at me for ringing up
cucumbers instead of zucchini.
I'd tell ya where you can put your
green vegetable, lady, if only I could
while keeping this friendly smile
plastered on my face.
See?  Have a nice day!

$5.50 an hour for this? Might as well get nothing.

I'm squinting.
But no sunlight can penetrate this cave
filled to the brim with packaged,
processed, why-don't-they-just-chew-it-for-you-too
quotation-mark-food-quotation-mark.
Oh, wait.
It's just the fluorescent lighting
reflecting off the shiny surface
of my boss's bald head.
The same boss who waves me
out into the pouring rain
to retrieve shopping carts
at 8:00 on Sunday night.

No one is going to need one.

There's a line
out the door
to jump into my spot.
Why would anyone subject
herself to this?
I didn't even get paid
for my training.
You know what,
that's it.
I'm throwing in the towel,
hanging up my apron,
grease stains and all
for the very last time.
Screw you, baldy!
I'm going to work at
Pizza Heaven.