You are behind that counter,
your canvas – pastrami, provolone,
salt and pepper,
these your fleeting tools, as I suppose,
like New Years pull poppers used and
forgotten.
Surely the learned setting outside
is your playground.
Behind that counter now, a way
station of necessity,
smoke of engines soon departing
obscure all but now,
And then you speak and words betray,
reveal not pull poppers, but a fuse
of indeterminate length.
To you, the smell of fast food toil is
a lifelong linger
on your polyester shirt.
Behind that counter now.
Behind that counter forever.
Until you are no longer young,
until first impressions do not
mislead.
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