when i'm on the job. so i travel
by foot, standing, it's easy on the heels.
i cross the midpoint of my journey,
counting minutes and hours trickle
down, like an i.v. pumping balsam
into our empty market place.
the store walls are of a bone-pale
plaster and the tiles floors, speckled
with footprints. time stolen, hand-over
fist. i catch a sight of our parking lot,
where cars are parked– employees only.
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