Five to eight and I sit down in the canteen
their eyes crawling all over me
there’s the snotty hissing
coming from the big table
a chair scrapes the tiles
and sure as the shit it smells like
one of them stomps over:
YOU A SUPERVISOR DEN?
he obviously wasn’t management,
in his crappy shelf-stacker polo
like the rest of us
NOT GOIN UNI OR KNOTTUN?
he didn’t strike me as being especially educated,
with the rest of us
SO WHA, YER JUST GONNA WERK ERE DEN?
KNOTTUN ELSE GOIN FOR YER, AVE YER?
I could have told him
he was going the right way about
ending up in a poem
but before I could
KIN LOSER! he spits
and he goes back over to the others
for back pats
and that bad sound that’s the sound of
male adult giggles
they’d sent the work psycho over
to test me?
make me feel even less welcome
than the interview
the job itself?
I’m a loser
but so’s he
I know what he’s paid
I saw his face
I smelt his smell
he has nothing going for him
besides this poem:
I guess we have that much in common.