i am one at work.
my breaths are filled with stress
and my eyes are dry, red, and tired.
i'm an embarrassment.
days like these -
they go to the bank
to get their checks
to match their hardworking hands.
those checks are collected
by well-earned work.
believe me - i have cried
i have feared
i have worried about my next breakfast -
my hair's not filled filled with
the scent of grease,
but my cheeks
reek of anxious tears.
my mind aches
with memorizations
of whitman, eliot, chopin -
my fingers are cold, sore -
back breaking from
dragging on a dream
i am one at work.
imagination shoved aside,
the greasers going to the bank
will never see that.
