I know this guy, Louie. Said he’d hook me up.
So I tell my boss, Take a long walk . . .
but I forget how the rest of that saying goes;
so I take a long walk across the warehouse
to my locker, grab my thermos, mirror, dirty pictures,
all while this fat security guy eyeballs me
like it’s fucking Fort Knox, his gold tooth,
gleaming like the ring on the prodigal son,
but I ain’t crawling back.
I know this guy, Louie. Said he’d hook me up
on one of his garbage trucks.
Shit, the smell, especially in summer, he says,
you sure you want to do this?
Like, I got no choice. I done cut the cord
long enough to hang myself.
You Judas! my boss yells
at me when I pick up my last check.
Asks where I’m working, like he gives an ape’s shit.
But I know this guy, Louie. Said he’d hook me up
maybe in the fall when business picks up
and laughs at the joke, but I don’t get it.
The sour lady at the unemployment office stares
like she don’t give a pint of fox piss
because I quit my job and I’m not entitled
to jack shit.
She asks me what kind of job I’m looking for.
One that pays the bills, I say.
Like the one you had? she asks, scratching
her arm, her psoriasis red and raw.
To make it official, she scribbles on paper,
asks me if I have any prospects,
like I’m a geezer panning for gold.
I tell her I know this guy, Louie,
said if I ain’t found nothing in a month
or two, to give him a call
said he’d toss me a bone
while his regulars celebrate the holidays.