05 June 2011

Andrew Hudgins, "Day Job and Night Job"

After my night job, I sat in class   
and ate, every thirteen minutes,   
an orange peanut-butter cracker.   
Bright grease adorned my notes.

At noon I rushed to my day job   
and pushed a broom enough
to keep the boss calm if not happy.   
In a hiding place, walled off

by bolts of calico and serge,
I read my masters and copied
Donne, Marlowe, Dickinson, and Frost,   
scrawling the words I envied,

so my hand could move as theirs had moved   
and learn outside of logic
how the masters wrote. But why? Words   
would never heal the sick,

feed the hungry, clothe the naked,   
blah, blah, blah.
Why couldn’t I be practical,
Dad asked, and study law—

or take a single business class?         
I stewed on what and why         
till driving into work one day,         
a burger on my thigh

and a sweating Coke between my knees,   
I yelled, “Because I want to!”—
pained—thrilled!—as I looked down   
from somewhere in the blue

and saw beneath my chastened gaze   
another slack romantic
chasing his heart like an unleashed dog   
chasing a pickup truck.

And then I spilled my Coke. In sugar   
I sat and fought a smirk.
I could see my new life clear before me.   
It looked the same. Like work.

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