Where Dreams Come True
The bathroom attendant asks me when
my shift begins. In my silver dress, I look
like a shake dancer. Soon, I tell her, giving
her a dollar for the peppermint she offers me.
I look for my friends, the sounds of the casino,
of luck and loss, surround me. I spot a dwarf
wearing a beret adorned with glitter riding
a scooter. He wheels toward me and yells,
“What are you looking at?” I tell him I’m
waiting for my shift to start, and he softens.
“First day?” he asks. I nod. “Shake it like you
mean it,” he says, rolling away to put quarters
in the Count Chocula slot machine. I find my
friends at the bar ordering expensive cocktails
that appear as if they are on fire, smoke from dry
ice enveloping them until you’re left with vodka
and fruit juice. I take a sip, thinking about how
I could get the same thing for half the price down
the street but I’m not paying for the drink. You
never pay for just the drink.
Take A Number
It’s September, and I’m thinking
about every office job I’ve ever
held, about the feeling of three
o’clock on any random Wednesday
afternoon, the feeling of my life
leeching away with the light. I’m
thinking of nights when the choice
is between frozen pizza and leftovers,
of the multi-packs of chips in which
only the bland ones remain, of waiting