Poets' Practice Pad

The Cashier's Revenge

It does not matter where I am
or who you are. You are all
the same.

Sometimes you are bored,
aloof,
incompetent.

You flare your nostrils at me when
modern technology requires you to
push a button with an airbrushed talon.
Your dirty look does not phase me.

Occasionally, you are absorbed
in strange conversation with the bagger
that is incomprehensible to a shopper's ear,
but I've deciphered your code,
"Put the eggs on the bottom and squish her bread."
I am on to you.

The worst is when you love your job.
"I think this is on sale."
"Go get another one so you can get a discount."
"My mother is in the hospital, but I'd never miss a shift here.
Even if the manager has his head up his ass."
You are all the same.

Eager to leave,
dying to escape your pervading personality
I wait patiently for my change.
But you torture me wtih your powers
to detain.

My extended hand starts to tire when
You finally give me the change:
First the dollar bills
then the receipt
coins on top.

My moral obligation
to free up the line is
sabotaged by your ignorance
of proper change handling.

The line behind me sighs
in contempt, not realizing
they, too, are doomed to
the cashier's revenge.