Three poems

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