Community Service

When they sent me out to do my
community service, the first two
places wouldn’t take me.

I
was a dangerous criminal.
The third place, a thrift store,
took me, no questions asked.
I thought to myself,
great,
sit back and handle a few customers.

Hell,
they almost broke me. I worked in
the back with people whose names
were Gomez and Garcia and who
could barely understand me. I
unloaded sofas, washing machines,
a cast iron stove for God’s sake.
Nearly broke me.
I looked forward to a cigarette
break with a madman’s glee,
and I was joined by the others,
the cigarette the communal language.
When I finally finished my
community service, they gave
me my paperwork to take back
to court, and on it, they wrote
great worker, thanks
and I felt more satisfaction out
of that than nearly all of my
poemsies I’ve ever had
published.