Photo by Phil Aicken
tocked off
Paul Tanner
the late shift:
me, standing at the counter
waiting for the next weirdo
to come in.
I’m trying not to look at the clock when
this lad comes in,
panting, his eye swollen.
he goes running up aisle 4 . . .
I’m trying not to look at the clock when
another lad comes in,
blood around his nose,
looking around.
where is he? he asks of me
but before I can answer
he goes running up aisle 2 . . .
I’m trying not to look at the clock when
I hear some grunting,
the shuffling and squeaks of shoes
and I leave the counter,
go follow the sounds . . .
they’re there
in aisle 3,
rolling around on the floor,
whacking lumps out of each other . . .
I watch them and not the clock when
they stop, exhausted
sprawled out across the aisle
and they look up at me.
maybe they expect me
to try and intervene,
maybe they want me to call the police
and make them feel important,
or give them an excuse
to involve me in their brawl,
I don’t know,
but I just look down at them and not the clock when
they get up
and slowly shuffle out,
one after the other, wincing . . .
I go back to the counter
and stand there
waiting for the next weirdo
to come in.
I’m trying not to look at the clock when
I can’t take it anymore
and I do,
I finally do
look at the clock
and–
Paul Tanner
the late shift:
me, standing at the counter
waiting for the next weirdo
to come in.
I’m trying not to look at the clock when
this lad comes in,
panting, his eye swollen.
he goes running up aisle 4 . . .
I’m trying not to look at the clock when
another lad comes in,
blood around his nose,
looking around.
where is he? he asks of me
but before I can answer
he goes running up aisle 2 . . .
I’m trying not to look at the clock when
I hear some grunting,
the shuffling and squeaks of shoes
and I leave the counter,
go follow the sounds . . .
they’re there
in aisle 3,
rolling around on the floor,
whacking lumps out of each other . . .
I watch them and not the clock when
they stop, exhausted
sprawled out across the aisle
and they look up at me.
maybe they expect me
to try and intervene,
maybe they want me to call the police
and make them feel important,
or give them an excuse
to involve me in their brawl,
I don’t know,
but I just look down at them and not the clock when
they get up
and slowly shuffle out,
one after the other, wincing . . .
I go back to the counter
and stand there
waiting for the next weirdo
to come in.
I’m trying not to look at the clock when
I can’t take it anymore
and I do,
I finally do
look at the clock
and–