Night Shift

A boy skinnier than I
Hauls trash bags I can not carry
Through a parking lot
Where he hugged
his headlights to a street lamp
In the softest of collisions
I fall behind
Struggling with my single bag
Keeping an eye on the tear at the bottom
Where day old modello seeps into the canvas of my shoes
Staining the laces yellow

He tosses our bags into the dumpster
With a force I do not think myself capable of
No matter how many ways
And times he attempts to teach me
His thin calloused hands, burned and crooked,
Pushing away plastic sacks of rotting meat

On our way back to the restaurant
He stops in front of a glistening car
We peer in the window, careful
Our faces reflected back at us
In awe of the red leather interior
The grace of it

A few doors down a man from the bar watches
Ashes from his cigarette falling to his feet
He wipes a hand on the dish towel
That hangs from his back pocket
Smearing it with grease