If Hours Persist

Here is a look at a working American's life and love, after they were dropped on the floor and pickle juice was spilled on them.

If Hours Persist

 

If hours persist the way they have

I surely will be most exhausted

When tomorrow I wake up to filthy frosted flakes.

Come Saturday I plan to cook a spiteful chicken

For a few ungracious vermin

Who all think I'll laugh like Herman Munster

As they stammer out their jokes

With the prerequisite mistakes.

 

Some lumpy girl will be there

And I know she’ll air her many squawks;

Nothing squeaks the way she talks

When she's around her folks.

So I'll resist the hour

When I have to send her french fries back

As she squeaks over

Five or six free refills of her Coke.

 

Maybe a walk this afternoon,

Past stripped cars and forced windows

In the fresh air of the lovely city,

Airing out its pits;

Alive, alive,  I tell myself;

It isn't puke, it's progress-

I can smell a lot of progress

Near the park bench where

Old Uncle Wally sits.

 

And then the night, the cool of night;

I’ll watch the tiny screen with rabbit ears

Without attention,

As finally relief drifts in;

The window cracked and slightly open,

Four dead beers

Swim in a pool of peppered grease,

More hell inside me.

Hey, it's Saturday,

A celebration certainly is due;

The landlord kindly offered a new lease.