It was a Hot and Heavy Night
It was a hot and heavy night,
that August in Pensacola
I walked out to my car,
the Hershey’s milk bar becoming
putty in my hand,
my adrenal glands working overtime
while I no longer have to.
The brightness and cold of the store
always gave me a headache.
My hands tingle with the thaw,
and I feel a certain sort of
exhilaration and joy.
The night is heavy with humidity,
but I’m as light as warm air rising
above a cooling cake.
Drug pushers in the back,
candy pushers up front—
that is work life at Walgreens.
No longer do I have to smell the smelly,
nor see the hairy underbelly
of Pensacola society,
jiggling in and out,
or running with scissors,
or whatever else they can stuff in their pants.
No more saying, “Be well,” to every customer,
even if they’re just getting a pack of cigs.
No more walking into the restroom,
finding used pregnancy tests
on the filthy floor,
or profiling Sudafed users,
or just plain winos.
No more working with nutjobs
who punch out the eyes of managers
in pictures hanging in the office hall
with a ballpoint pen.
No more threats on my life
The creep show must go on,
but I no longer have to be there.
I am no longer a Wag hag
sans the Wag swag.
I feel free as an eagle,
for I just quit this drag,
without even having to say a word.