It’s 5:30.We all file in, wearing white shirts, black pants.
All white shirts are different and reveal our station in life.
Perhaps some don’t have your standard white shirt,
Some are dress shirts, some are polo shirts, some are T-shirts.
Then there are those who do not have a white shirt at all.
And that’s ok. I know it’s all ok, whatever shirt you were
Able to find.
I have a friend with me who needs a job too. That is good.
Good that we came together.
We check in. She is there, the one I had an interview with
8 months ago and never heard from again. But they need us
Now. For one day, they are like Santa, came to pick us up
From the island of misfit toys for Christmas. Does she know,
Does she understand? She is in a daze. Perhaps she was never
Able to see us, never able to help us through her fake glued on
Eyelashes. I am angry inside, angry for myself, angry for all
Of us standing there in line in our mishmash of black pants
And white shirts.
We sit in the brake room, waiting for our instructions. It smells
Like shit. Literally. It’s dark in here like a dungeon, but we are all together
As each files in and sits down, with knowing smiles exchanged between us.
There is togetherness and an acceptance we find amongst ourselves.
These are writers, poets, painters, craftsmen and women of life.
These are children, fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, friends.
Each with a special known or unknown, perhaps untapped hidden gift
Of their own. Why is life like this, why is life set up this way?
There is talk of Temp companies. There is talk of recruiters.
The store supervisor comes in and is asked by one of us if they are hiring.
The reply is not until October, but I silently applaud her for
Trying. I do not have the heart to tell her that now she is here
She will not be eligible for direct hire for six months.
We are given our scanners. We work in silence passing the red
Light over bar codes.
Beep, Beep
Beep, Beep
At times there is a rhythm, our beeps answering each other.
There is kindness and warm smiles amongst us in the silence.
These poor folks that may have been forgotten. These poor
Folks that were thrown a crumb from the table for a day.
It has become a privilege to have a job. Everyone is just trying
To hold on. Hold on to what they have, or hold on until they
Have something. This is America. This is Jack Kerouac’s new
Beat generation. And it’s all wrapped up in God, and poetry
And a terrible sacred beat journey, together.
~Jenny
