Evening Shift

The laughter of working men

drifts into my back window.

At once I am 18, the girl from the office

taking a smoke break in a smear of fluorescent light

outside the hissing factory.

I want to be an artist in black

who has everything she needs,

but with sweat trickling down the small of my back

in this too-short polyester dress

it is easier to joke,

easier to pick the one with the wallet wife

and the key to his buddy’s place,

easier to give him the one thing

without seeming to want to,

easier to pretend I care a little

until I walk out to the cab at dawn

and don’t look back.