I’ve Learned That

work used to be stuffing Lucky Lights
in the breast pocket of your plaid shirt.
& pouring ginger ale
in an empty water bottle,
to copy the Cuervo your father poured
in a flask, over a bowl on the counter.
Timbs, blue sweat pants, & a red parker,
with a hoodie was your hazmat suit,
like the uniform your father wore
when you rode with him
in the garbage truck.

Now, work is. The click of that Bundy clock at 8:15,
with the hollow ring of its spring. The light mist Randy sprays at
you from the hose, before you soap-up, wash,
& dry an endless stream of hubcaps,
doors, hoods, mirrors & grills with the Infiniti logo,
until your right hand starts to cramp-up. Then you use your left.
It’s saying, “Yes mam,” & holding open the car door
for girls your age in tight-tees, with freckles & wayfarer shades,
hoping they won’t tip you.