Clock-On August 25,2006

I walk ripped tendons aching and popping

past Back Yard Burgers, Bennigans

To my job of four years

In my scarlet apron, a company Handmaid awash

In an asphalt sea of corporate logos

Blessed be the customer service

The Perkin's green and white flag ripples proudly

against the dreary sky

Lexus,Honda, BMW's twinkle

Quartz mica on black slick pavement

Inside UCF is having its annual marketing meeting

I clock on become an automaton hiding the pain behind a mechanical smile

Red smudge war paint doll face there's

only pretty on the outside 

My Alma Mater has festooned the room with

Gold and black balloons 

I am reminded again of what a disappointment I must be to my parents

spending all my time on poetry and painting 

Homeschooling my daughter, instead of getting a "real job"

There is no place in franchise city for the creative

they have no use for us and in a place with no community

we become useless people

working to eat but I would never want to be waste

like Mark Bennett was, dropping acid, following the Grateful Dead

Abandoning his family, borrowing money he'll never pay back,

Only to die at 33 of an asthma attack 

an artist has to have some pride if she's to survive at all

and I mean to last.

This rhythm of dipping into the mop bucket making the slate shine

Every night comforts me, it is an absolution, cleaning,

As if I were of a monastic order praying as an artist 

in Franchise City