Pillow Biters

They said the gas station only hires pillow-biters but

I needed a job within walking distance so I slapped

my ass and told them I’m $7.25/lbs and about one-

ten.

My father couldn’t handle the blue-ball strip-tease

that is minimum-wage production so he returned to

his position as ‘local-pharmacist.’ My mother’s

drinking a beer in her scrubs after working a double.

Her body hurts in all these places (it starts in the

wrists (I’m next)).

What is commonly referred to as “The Man” turns

over the maggot pile daily for fear they will pick up

antinatalism if left to their own devices. The worms

in the trough get the fresh scraps. The floor-worms

get crumbs. But

enough with my apocalypse—there’s still seven

hours left in my shift and the stock-shelf girl is

singing like a cage-canary; that is, badly and off-key;

though, her tone’s good. Maybe with lessons she’d

be great.

The store is empty; I do a sudoku in my brain.