The Coming Depression
Near closing, a bagboy
scans my beer and chicken wings,
throws them into a plastic bag
that will soon be outlawed,
and he drops a beer bottle
a few inches above the conveyor belt,
before throwing it in
along with the rest of the junk
that reflects my double chin.
I think of the minimum wage increase
to seventeen dollars an hour
in the coming year, he looks
at me with disgust,
overweight with a stained white shirt
from sloppily eating barbeque
during my lunch break,
and him, handsome, fit,
ready to be observed
by beautiful things,
but for now, he grimaces
at the rose scented bath bombs,
one-dollar Christ candles,
warm plastic bouquets
made for a distance,
eventually he smiles
as I slip him three bills,
and I think of him later
stuffing my face
into a bamboo pillow
like an old dog
who did it again.
*
Brandon Shane is a poet and horticulturist, born in Yokosuka, Japan. You can see his work in Rattle, trampset, Variant Lit, The Chiron Review, Stone Circle Review, IceFloe Press, among others. He graduated from Cal State Long Beach with a degree in English.