Job Poems
1
the poor line
my poor tea m but
god I love this tea m
I love these people
I love this job
this job I tell em
ignore the voicemail I left
it said to use up an hour of pto
if I’m late
I’m late because some young woman
darted out in front of the double 17
this bus’ll blow you apart
but she had to make it
to the starbucks
she had to flip
the driver the bird
while grinning having just cheated death
and I’m gripping a jerk
nearly broke my teeth
the director wanted to meet
he set a time but not a place
I said yes I’ll meet you at no place
and after I’ll get these sutures out my mouth
I’ll even keep the sutures in
for a job I’ll grow a new tooth
just not on Delaware Ave
I cross over the tracks
I walk a mile in these boots
then return them at Nordstrom Rack
the new receptionist knows I’m there
without looking at my face.
2
the first word is her bosom
the second word is watching
sam jackson sing for capital one
when I close the Gregory Corso tab
I furret through his garbage
run out on the chance of fucking his wife
is it Ah-re-chi-bo or Ah-re-see-beau
either way no one is responding
just mortal farts of stars and moons
all the beats wrote of cum
they saw dead men in their silver dollars
I flipped and made a two-faced decision
I help out a man and in the wreckage of his work
he identifies me as the sole arbiter of his misery
now mrs. so and so cannot get her property tax rebate
I make suggestions in the LED quiet
every night I greet a new custodian
Maria was in an auto accident
I think of her
Oronde is a painter, but you would never know that
because he emptied yr waste basket once
you didn’t say a word
and you never saw him again
3
I fear no holy congressman cumming on his phone
$300 slacks pancakes over whole-cut balmorals
on a beautiful marble floor rife with piss and shit
as those two are forever in matrimony
regret sending messages to the sky
is the same as quickly cutting off eye contact
man is a cigarette wedged in the recess of an ashtray
he’ll melt if you press him hard enough
at the end of my shift I place three packs of mustard
one pack of soy sauce neatly at the edge of my desk
and cover both monitors with a large white sheet of paper
it says “work” over monitor 1
and “work” over monitor 2
they are effectively my eyes for 9.5 hours
the air conditioner sounds like leaves in fall wind
the leaves in fall wind sound like car horns in rain
the rain smells like the lover I haven’t earned
at the potluck I spy the last piece of fried chicken
being polite I begin wedging a plastic knife into it
and Shanice says, “Quyen, if you don’t eat that
whole piece of chicken...”
4
breakfuss is a mad bus dash, bus dust
stranger accordion make its slinky way to work
so find yrself a morning partner
coffee is a black growl and sugar a soot belch
I feel it up to my ears when I tip over
there’s a Keurig river in Guatemala
its inhabitants stare dumbfounded
but you know nothing when you live upstream
the word “Inspire” is on the counter
but I can only see the “ire”
you only keep the veil up so long
until the thermos sputters “fuck you, make more”
I’ll make more until my lunar birthday
my legal sex is getting thrown through plate glass
I’m the people of the future you wrote of
I’m a sledgehammer away from every token in the system
you’ll keep an eye out though won’t you?
I see it coming now I rush through rottenhouse pork
as a shortcut and beaming I pinch a coin and say
Quyen H. Nghiem
Quyen H. Nghiem is a Philadelphia artist, educator, and designer from Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam. His poems have appeared in Apiary Magazine, Bedfellows, Dusie, and Painted Bride Quarterly.