Oct 18 2012
Does She Work
“Does she work?”
Asked
The pretty teller
As she
Offered
A packaged smile
That
Came with all the
Forms
And Files
She slid
Across
The counter.
.
“Does she work?”
He thought
Of
Dishes piled
High
And the line
Of clothes
Never ending
And the way
She always
Spoke a little
Too loudly
Even when
There wasn’t
The reverberating
Din
Of children in
The background.
.
“Does she work?”
She asked
Standing in
The sterile room
With florescent glare
Her temperature controlled
Along with the air
By the hushed
Tones of
Muzak
Caressing
Her ear.
.
“Does she work?”
The question stuck
Like mud
On the freshly painted
Walls of the foyer
That she scrubbed
Clean
Only to
Find
An artist’s rendition
Of the Metro
In greens and reds
And so much
Blue
Swept under
The carpet.
.
“Does she work?”
She asked.
.
“No,” he answered
And, knew
It was a lie.
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