AFTER SCHOOL SPECIAL
The work’s not bad;
you’ve been here
before, and you’re lucky
the boss doesn’t care
about the two-year crater
in your resume. Just count
change, smile, shelve
biographies,
A,
B,
C, tear
into another midafternoon Oreo.
Those kindergarten skills
are coming in handy,
kid. Count your blessings:
the dust on your palms
is from old paper, not coal
or abating asbestos. No
one’s sending you
to the glue factory. At least
you know a euphemism
when you see one. You didn’t go
belly-up in a big-city
bathtub; you’re more stress
fracture than the drama
of blunt force trauma, lacerations,
car skidding over black ice
on bald tires—no, just
a quiet erosion of strength
masked by sensible cardigans.
Everyone in this town remembers
you. They ask after
your disappearance
and return, your incomplete
degree, and you smile,
count change, hand over
the goods, another version
of the same sad story, scabs
picked raw, the red puddling, hidden
in your second-hand shoes.
Author’s Bio
Marika Prokosh writes, cooks, and answers reference questions in Winnipeg. Her poetry has appeared in publications including Prairie Fire, CV2, Room, Lemon Hound, QDA: A Queer Disability Anthology, and at The Toast, where she also wrote the monthly advice column The Spinster’s Almanac.