Underpaid Psychiatric Theraputic Convenient Store

Once an hour, easily, someone walks in, makes eye contact,
and spills their day on the counter.

Since I have nothing better to do, execpt shove slices of American Cheese in my mouth,
I listen.

Deat cat, hospitalized dog, father disowned him, mother sleeping with his father's brother, wife divorces.

I nod my head, in an attempt to console this fool,
who still won't tell me exactly what he wants.

Ten minutes later, the coffee he poured five minutes ago now empty,
he stops to breathe and refill, I turn and walk.

Just as I am about to turn the corner, the son-of-a-bitch asks for something,
a pack of cigarettes.

He grabs the pack, tears off the wrapping, then throws it on the counter,
like I'm a fucking janitor.

I throw his trash away and he makes for the door, cigarette lit before the door closes, what a douchebag.

I fling the swinging saloon-style doors open,
making my way to the backdoor, to find my co-worker.

Lighting up a smoke of my own, I tell him about this guy and his rant,
when I realize, I'm doing the same thing.