the birthrights of a department store blues...

the dark of the stockroom

walking past the storefront

I slowed down, staring

at my window reflection

the shop keep came out

he was a stout Italian or French man

I could not tell except for his sing song cadence

he said, “ hey, mister do you want-ta a job”

and soon I was on this dry goods

fine linens Olympic team

in the back with the mangled wooden crates

and newfangled wax corrugated cardboard containers

these lightweight boxes with wavy lines

inside two paper thin panels, dreamt of being trees once

you imagined they screamed for wind in their pulp fiber madness

stiffened by processing glues and slapped with paint

they became the quiet holders of things

all of us in the stock room savaged each other’s lives

with tales of woe and slay when on break

we told and re-told stories that winced

at blades of truth so we kept those eyes sheathed

while laughing and piling the flattened boxes and crushed cans

spying often, as men do, at the gams with fine shoes

making sweet bell sounds on the wooden floor

occasionally a waft of her perfume made it

into our tankard smiled sweat and smear faced dusty regards

we were cave-dwellers, coal mining in the constant night

of the stockroom, for diamonds, time to time

no need to peer back, ma’am, just listen for our silence

as you bend over the counter to pick out

those new nylons, made in America, imported from France

they’re on the bottom shelf as you can see

we have plenty to choose from, so take your time

the shop keep says, giving us a wink, keeping us connected

and happy inside the dark of the stockroom

EJR ©