![I write poetry on scrap paper at workbetween scan and scan and clean and bagand scan. Instead of eyeing the languid lapsof the shortest of three hands,I use my ownto will each receipt into a sloppy ticket out.But it’s clock out,not write out,and the grocery genre belongsto a bearded beat anyway.I’m stuck resisting trite but temptingmetaphors for the damage bin in back,for the produce codes my fingers know,for the product I now am:peel painted yellowand curled around the bottomof a brown bag,waiting for the paper to carry me out.
[2-28-11]](http://29.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lspyu7IN2c1qzaxxbo1_500.jpg)
I write poetry on scrap paper at work
between scan and scan and
clean and bag
and scan.
Instead of eyeing the languid laps
of the shortest of three hands,
I use my own
to will each receipt
into a sloppy ticket out.
But it’s clock out,
not write out,
and the grocery genre belongs
to a bearded beat anyway.
I’m stuck resisting
trite but tempting
metaphors for the damage bin in back,
for the produce codes my fingers know,
for the product I now am:
peel painted yellow
and curled around the bottom
of a brown bag,
waiting for the paper
to carry me out.
[2-28-11]
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