A new customer steps up, and
the cashier recites the monotonous words
for the millionth time, words that establish the illusion
that she actually cares. The slow
ticking of the clock is infinitely more important.

She is a teenager, her face smothered by
make-up and impatience.
She listens to the elderly man
with a false sense of happiness,
though she occasionally glances at him
as if he is a walking corpse.
The man’s words seem to slow down,
much like a worn metronome placed on
the lowest setting.


Her gaze shifts to the infinite expanse of blue sky,
unsaturated by any object but the brilliant sun.
Rays of heat sit outside the window
begging for her to keep them company.
Her job is an inescapable prison.
No sun tanning. No time with friends.
No shopping. No life.
She has no bearing of reality in her youth.