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August 1, 2011 by · No comments

Kenneth Pobo

Photo: fotupia

Dindi slips on a greasy floor
while picking up her order of steak,
Caesar salad, and spaghetti
for Mrs. McFrunt’s table. No one

helps her up. On hands and knees,
she hobbles over to the room
where servers eat. Reid bursts in,
“Hey Dindi, your table is screamin’

where’s our food?” He’s a glossy
magazine on a bed. She trembles
back to her table, apologizes.
“Get us another server!”

They get one. And a free dinner.
Dindi isn’t fired though her boss,
Jenny, says, “This is coming out
of your pay!” And stalks away–

Dindi nods, knows that if she quits
she’s homeless, the bank
a glass shard
just under her bare foot.

Categories: Frontpage · poetry


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