When I cannot hide out 
my father's need 
of me 
to work at his fast-food 
Chicago grease restaurant roundabout 

I remain diligent and devout
of my apathy
and try my best
to make myself seem worthless
as tho I really
am not
there even as he takes to his lunchtime crowd
he runs through the rush
and waits 'till they binge and gush
back to their cars
back to their cubicles
back to nothing
and then he goes hunting
for me in the back
measuring sauerkraut
and spins me
then curses
I say I am leaving
so he rips up my card
so I cannot clock-out
so I do
and think nothing
so he thinks I have been broken
so he feels his order is sowed
so I allow his spout
to beget a drought
of my spirit
so I could cease his toxic fallout
I gape at the french-fryer
so I think about
my head
into the scald oil shroud
so I can forget about
the fatherly altercations I fight from clouds
but they always tell me
He is crazy
also a lout
and that that is hemmed in the seams
of my jeans
or otherwise
my reflex is not loud
hasn't even a sound
solely the hushed scream
when I steep this head
in a deep-fry free-for-all bout
and on my father's register's payout
will read:

     Your son
     finally decided
     to clock-out.
2 Responses to “Clock-out”
  1. Robyn says:

    you inspired me to write about my dad

What do you think? Criticisms and praise welcome.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s


    • 5,619 peeks
  • Months through the ANTHOLOGY

%d bloggers like this: