#nightshift - Hello Poetry

Almost Christmas, Melrose Ave. Packed bar, bodies pressed, at capacity, each person finding that angle of light that hides the damage and sells the lie. Two actors sprawl at a six-top, spread out like they bought the air. Standing in the aisle beside them, rail against my ribs, nowhere to shift. Spiky Hair holds his glass, Orange Pants turns his bottle slow, like he means to read it. She talks in a baby voice, he says. Then asks if I’d choke her. The bottle stops. Spiky Hair smirks. I stand working whiskey into the ache of my thighs and feet, garlic burn under my fingernails, a lingering sting from degreaser, boots skinned in oil and mop water, the floor trembling under me reminding me of every shift I ever survived. Back-wall payphone, girl with a teardrop tattoo, silver rings climbing both ears, cradles the black receiver, pressed hard, guitar case pulled tight, an omen wrapped in velvet. Colored bulbs sag above her, red and blue stuttering across her face just how a warning does when it arrives too late. Her eyes shine the way glass shines right before it breaks. I saw my own door again, slammed without thinking, her shoes left by the mattress on the floor, my apartment now waiting, dim as a blown fuse. Three Tehrangeles boys, Rodeó cologne still warm on their clothes, stand in the neon ricochet off the bar mirror, wide-eyed, as if someone has ripped the scene open, showing the cheap fabric stretched over all this wanting. The bodies press me further in. I do not move, smelling the garlic on my hands, the life I cannot wash off.

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Dec 3, 2025

Dec 3, 2025 at 2:27 PM UTC

William-A-Gibson

Almost Christmas, Melrose Ave.

Almost Christmas, Melrose Ave. Packed bar, bodies pressed, at capacity, each person finding that angle of light that hides the damage and sells the lie. Two actors sprawl at a six-top, spread out like they bought the air. Standing in the aisle beside them, rail against my ribs, nowhere to shift. Spiky Hair holds his glass, Orange Pants turns his bottle slow, like he means to read it. She talks in a baby voice, he says. Then asks if I’d choke her. The bottle stops. Spiky Hair smirks. I stand working whiskey into the ache of my thighs and feet, garlic burn under my fingernails, a lingering sting from degreaser, boots skinned in oil and mop water, the floor trembling under me reminding me of every shift I ever survived. Back-wall payphone, girl with a teardrop tattoo, silver rings climbing both ears, cradles the black receiver, pressed hard, guitar case pulled tight, an omen wrapped in velvet. Colored bulbs sag above her, red and blue stuttering across her face just how a warning does when it arrives too late. Her eyes shine the way glass shines right before it breaks. I saw my own door again, slammed without thinking, her shoes left by the mattress on the floor, my apartment now waiting, dim as a blown fuse. Three Tehrangeles boys, Rodeó cologne still warm on their clothes, stand in the neon ricochet off the bar mirror, wide-eyed, as if someone has ripped the scene open, showing the cheap fabric stretched over all this wanting. The bodies press me further in. I do not move, smelling the garlic on my hands, the life I cannot wash off.

53

Harry bends over the grill, beefy with years of drink and culled anger, scrubbing until silver shines, a bullet waiting for my shift. He believes if the French Toast is perfect, she will appear in a halo of steam, peacoat and Mary Janes, ready to forgive the life they never had. Outside Brother Juniper’s, Peachtree Street is a kingdom of late century's lost: druggies, rent boys, drag queens, pimps preaching Jesus to the homeless in Piedmont Park. The smell of grease stitches it all together. Inside, fluorescent light makes faces soft as wet clay, ready to be remade by morning. French fries sizzle like whips, blintzes bleed cherry onto chipped plates, and Tati, round as a blessing, delivers soup to the sobbing girl whose mascara becomes a confession. I clock in, busting knuckles and boots, young, stupid, just trying to keep up with him. I know he wants her to return. I know she won’t. I know he’s getting older. I watch Harry’s grace and sweat, serving a city that believes in one last plate of salvation. At dawn, he walks out slow, grease still on his arms, orders a drink he won’t finish, lets Ray Charles sing him home, searches the sidewalk for her red hair in every stranger.

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Aug 6, 2025

Aug 6, 2025 at 1:49 PM UTC

William-A-Gibson

French Toast at 3 A.M.

Harry bends over the grill, beefy with years of drink and culled anger, scrubbing until silver shines, a bullet waiting for my shift. He believes if the French Toast is perfect, she will appear in a halo of steam, peacoat and Mary Janes, ready to forgive the life they never had. Outside Brother Juniper’s, Peachtree Street is a kingdom of late century's lost: druggies, rent boys, drag queens, pimps preaching Jesus to the homeless in Piedmont Park. The smell of grease stitches it all together. Inside, fluorescent light makes faces soft as wet clay, ready to be remade by morning. French fries sizzle like whips, blintzes bleed cherry onto chipped plates, and Tati, round as a blessing, delivers soup to the sobbing girl whose mascara becomes a confession. I clock in, busting knuckles and boots, young, stupid, just trying to keep up with him. I know he wants her to return. I know she won’t. I know he’s getting older. I watch Harry’s grace and sweat, serving a city that believes in one last plate of salvation. At dawn, he walks out slow, grease still on his arms, orders a drink he won’t finish, lets Ray Charles sing him home, searches the sidewalk for her red hair in every stranger.

40

After you see the look Of pain and fear in his eye After you feel the chances Slipping on by After you bear witness To the screaming shaking pain After the wave of anger Washes you with blame After you feel hope slipping From your very hands After you soothe and comfort And hope he understands After the grief of what can’t be Of not accepting where you’re at Good luck finding sweet dreams After all that

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May 1, 2020

May 1, 2020 at 5:21 PM UTC

cathy-5

After all that

After you see the look Of pain and fear in his eye After you feel the chances Slipping on by After you bear witness To the screaming shaking pain After the wave of anger Washes you with blame After you feel hope slipping From your very hands After you soothe and comfort And hope he understands After the grief of what can’t be Of not accepting where you’re at Good luck finding sweet dreams After all that

16

I’m standing in the spotlight of the gas station Waiting for the tank to fill Doing the mundane and ordinary Glad that I’m not ill I look up at the inky blackness So dark against the glare The wind stirs and snowflakes drift Towards me standing there Illuminated.... ......sparkling Floating........... Ethereal....... I’m not a fan of winter My fingers frozen to the bone I’d rather have a summer day And make the beach my home But the beauty in small things Lifts my heart from doom Each tiny speck of crystal white Brightening the gloom Perhaps they are a blessing Saying I’ll be alright Perhaps they are a promise That I’ll have a better night Maybe they’re a sign From one who passed as I held her A thank you and goodbye A pause to reflect and remember

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Apr 16, 2020

Apr 16, 2020 at 2:52 PM UTC

cathy-5

The other night

I’m standing in the spotlight of the gas station Waiting for the tank to fill Doing the mundane and ordinary Glad that I’m not ill I look up at the inky blackness So dark against the glare The wind stirs and snowflakes drift Towards me standing there Illuminated.... ......sparkling Floating........... Ethereal....... I’m not a fan of winter My fingers frozen to the bone I’d rather have a summer day And make the beach my home But the beauty in small things Lifts my heart from doom Each tiny speck of crystal white Brightening the gloom Perhaps they are a blessing Saying I’ll be alright Perhaps they are a promise That I’ll have a better night Maybe they’re a sign From one who passed as I held her A thank you and goodbye A pause to reflect and remember

28

clock in somewhere between midnight and eery silece peeling my eyes wide, can not close (they can't) have to keep busy busy, busy, busy my mind is always busy like it's a job no time for breaks no happy thoughts the one laying next to me is rich in slumber resting from his day of work I am wide awake, my mind working quickly, my eyes watering just on que it's all part of the routine I have to never forget you it's okay, my dear dreamer sleep well, I will take the night shift.

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Apr 3, 2016

Apr 3, 2016 at 5:10 PM UTC

Lyricalmind

night shift

clock in somewhere between midnight and eery silece peeling my eyes wide, can not close (they can't) have to keep busy busy, busy, busy my mind is always busy like it's a job no time for breaks no happy thoughts the one laying next to me is rich in slumber resting from his day of work I am wide awake, my mind working quickly, my eyes watering just on que it's all part of the routine I have to never forget you it's okay, my dear dreamer sleep well, I will take the night shift.

18