Well, aren’t you
remarkably flexible —

being so nice to her
when you secretly despise her
for being so nice to you?

What a dumbass she is,
what a sterling specimen
you are
to not show the contempt
you feel for her

in her smock and name tag,
waiting on you so pleasantly
as if she actually enjoyed
contact with others, almost as if
she didn’t know that she’s a wheel
in the Cosmic Rejection Engine
of The Great Corporation
and her willing wage slavery merely reinforces
the efficiency of the Grand Scam?

You, on the other hand,
are so magnanimous you’d even
stoop to doing her
if you ran into her somewhere
and made a connection
because you both were wearing
ironic Pantera T-shirts.  Such a blessing,
you and your urge to admit
a certain attraction as she rings up

your stuff that she smilingly
puts in a Big Red Bullseye bag
you’ll discard as soon as you can
in a gas station trash barrel
because you don’t want that showing up
in your trash — what would the housemates say
if they knew you’d shopped there,
even ironically, buying
the first thing that caught your eye
and not even seeking country of origin
on the screen printed label in the neck.

You’re hoping she’ll be there next time.
Maybe you can chat a bit.  Try to sympathize
over her plight.  Check out her ass
again.  Suggest you attend a party
at the local co-op on Friday, pray
she doesn’t have a kid.  Maybe you’ll
get some.  Maybe she’ll remember you
and think you’re a hero, a Prince Charming
in Converse and Mossimo,
skulls and bands blossoming like heraldry
on your knightly vegan arm.  How sweet
you’ll be to her.  How flexible
you’ll hope she is.