In the Bed Bath & Beyond basement

(previously published by Harpur Palate)

We spend the morning unloading nose-trimmers,

corkboards, cap-racks and duvets.

We slice through boxes, ripping them open

like the bellies of livestock,

laying them flat, their entrails removed.

When a new shipment comes, we wheel it

past the lights, to the Bed & Bath basement

where our radio plays K-Rock,

Highway to Hell, and the swell of sawdust

envelops our brooms.

Our supervisor, Leo, soft-tags toasters.

Once a banker on Wall Street, now he spends

his lunch breaks at KB-Toys, searching

for a model of the Porsche he used to own.

Beside him is Keith who pounds espresso-kits

with a plastic price-gun, and who

I am fairly certain hates me.

Across the table, unpacking packs

of a Black & Decker cutlery-set, I hate him back.

Nothing personal, just the way things go

when you don’t go far:

shift-clock twisted. Punch-card punched.