by Michael P. Rodriguez

If when I’m sitting on the train
rubbing my temples, massaging
the pain that his rooted itself
to the base of my brain, and hating
my job, hating my boss, wondering
if she’s trying to give me an aneurysm,
wondering if I’ll live five more years
or become a statistic slain by high-blood
pressure and the rat-race

If when I’m sitting on the train
re-swallowing the hot acid bile
that is rising in my throat, clenching
my teeth to stop the grinding,
squinting my blood-shot eyes
to kill the ringing in my ears, scratching
my skin to ease the invisible rash I know
is lying right underneath the skin, stretching
my back to ease the knots that tighten it,
as I remember holding my tongue…

I breathe deeply and listen to the irregular pounding
of my heart, taking a deep breath and fill my lungs
with rancid air and say to myself, “Damn, I gotta do
this thing all over again tomorrow.”

Workaidiot by Michael P. Rodriguez

© Copyright 2002. All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be duplicated or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.

TimBookTu Logo

Return to the Table of Contents | Return to Main Page