Closing’s the Worst Shift

and everybody knows it. The floors

are never clean enough and

you’ll never get out fast enough for

Mr. Mani-Pedi, the owner/asshole

who only ever comes in Monday mornings

to drop off the supplies he picked

up earlier that day from Sam’s Club.

Fucker never buys enough

floor cleaner anyway, so you’re

scrubbing the floor with bleach

by week’s end, which doesn’t really

work, but nobody listens to you so

don’t bother bringing it up.

Raise your voice and be known

as the complainer around here. Just run

the month-old disposable mop

head smelling of piss and pepperoni

over the floor,  and be sure to pick up

the split-end threads that fall out when

you vigorously scrub down those mysterious

gooey black spots. You could throw

those loose mop threads in the trash

one-by-one as they appear on the tile,

but you might as well stuff ’em in your pocket,

wait ‘til you’re done, and throw that shit

away all at once. Saves time. And you already

smell like pizza and farts anyway since you

just cleaned the floor drain out. At least

you got to yell “fuck” as loud as you wanted

when the drain butter spattered on you as

you sprayed that shit down. Manager didn’t

care. Too busy blowing his paycheck up his nose

in that bathroom you just cleaned. Still is.

The bathroom door finally opens and he comes

out stretching in an over-exaggerated and

accomplished fashion and initiates some

uncomfortable eye contact. His smile twitches

and he says, “Whatcha wanna hear tonight?”

You smile back and say, “Whatever is cool, man.”

But secretly, you hope it’s Maiden.

-Bearshaman

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