The Misery of A Till

A poem about poverty, and taking jobs you know you won't do and despise before even doing them.

I took the job in a wallet shop.

I’d be selling wallets.

And the only benefit would be

   The smell of cool, cracked leather and oil

           All        day        long.

The smell of tough skin in a museum.

To know I’d be on the other side of this glass display

Where faded belts fitted with buckles and clips

Lay stretched beneath cool light like a punishment.

                To know

THE WEIGHT of that damned transaction,

Registered like an antique punch-till,

Crammed between my shoulder blades,

Where the nexus of tender bones had once fragile-y clutched my wings.

Reviews

[James William Dyer]

I just installed InDesign, now I can really tamper with word layout. Can't wait!

[KAOlmsted]

The irony in having to take a job in a wallet shop because yours is woefully empty...very heavy stuff. Again, beautifully written and poignant. I can practically feel that tender spot where your wings broke off...