Email Poem

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Personal Note:

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Poem

the man behind the 7-Eleven counter
breathes in, when the customer struggling to
get their discount card to read on the scanner
becomes more frustrated with each passing
moment,
he has extraordinary patience,
because this one is representative of the
vast menagerie of stressed out people
on their way to one destination
close or far,
who have found it essential 
for whatever reason,
to stop here &
perform their ritual of insanity---
the man’s motions are slow but deliberate &
the routine of punching the buttons is one
that he could do with his eyes closed---
no one who comes through that door with the bell
knows his story,
no one knows if he goes home to an empty house or
if he has a family,
no one knows how long he has worked at this particular
7 Eleven---
all anyone knows is that the movements are
flawless,
that he has perfected the art of ringing up someone for gas &
small items of junk food, comfort food, or 
survival foods for the road
(however you define them),
like a man who stands superior over any of us
having mastered a skill,
setting the bar for all who attempt it later &
tomorrow is another working day,
as will be the
next.

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