With a leaned limp, weighed with a wash bucket,
all day, he’s spent like girls bronzing tan lines away:
Shirtless in the sun, bartering parking lot to parking lot
in strained elastic waistband sweatpants
cowering under his bold belly;
offerings spotless washed windshields for only
payments of whatever change wallowed in water,
sour chew spit, sticky soda sugars in cup holders.
Dusk died in red and purple dye in the sky
and he caught every last violent ray
as he cleaned bug guts, dirt chips,
remains of the last decent rain
as sweat etched his epidermis;
by the bucket, he smiled and stood
as soap bubbles dissolved in polluted water,
for vehicle owners to slip out a sandwich shop
like squeezable mustard, with full stomachs
and generous giving’s of loose change.
His sponge had licked every international car
with American muscle, including mine;
he caught me full of a club sandwich, like a vampire
fresh stuffed from an all-nighter blood buffet.
My key’s teeth chewed, the door unlatched,
and the American working man
stood with an open hand,
starved for the taste for change,
nickels and dimes, but
all he got was pennies.
More, is what he asked for. More!
So short of small metallic circle currency,
I gave a grocery bag of bread and peanut butter;
in his hands was a moveable feast, my provisions—
he dropped it to the parking lot,
my meal for days. He demanded meat.
Meat! A meal from once-living creatures,
slimmed and sliced thin.
A family ambled out the sandwich shop
as slow as their arteries flowed.
He could hear their change cling
in their deep pockets
he could smell their wet change
in their car’s sloppy cup holders.