Turning Blue Myself

14 April 2021 Wednesday Prose Poem: getting off work

You gave me a nice little rub and tug right before I had to leave to clock in and sell my soul to a corporation who already sold theirs. I didn’t even finish and I was still late, so why didn’t we just finish anyway? Why does this place make me feel scared to be a few minutes late? I left you with your tempting eyes and your new solitude in the room, half naked, a hand covered in spit, and I wished so deeply that I also had the day off.

“Goodbye, baby. I’ll see you tonight,” I said as I left the room and out the front door only to return later because I forgot the belt to my uniform. At least I have a belt that looks a little different. It’s blue and interwoven, kind of like my life. “This time for real. I’ll see you tonight,” with a wink, and a wink back, and blowing kiss, and a blowing kiss back.

When I entered the damned place, all the orders were fucked, and I wasn’t. The dreams were getting more tempting, lingering in the sauced air of kitchen thoughts and serving odds, nuanced in the bubble of my atmosphere soaked in your honey love. Honey love. Another plate out, another plate in. Another problem.

I forgot about the pasta and they wanted spaghetti and clam sauce. I only poured the sauce. I was only thinking about the sauce. I only poured my fantasy. I was only thinking about your pussy. I’m not even home and you’re still making me hot. Fuck.

Hours passed and I kept burning my hand on the stove and I kept licking the same spot. Sanitation is great but I’m looking for something dirty. Something if done just right it could break this place and shatter this foundation of order. I’m thinking about your eyes. I’m thinking about your mind and what you’re thinking because I know you’re thinking something dirty too. Something explosive.

Oh, baby, how I want you. How I want your long hair tickling my balls. Your call. This shit is shielding me from what I need to be, who I am. The ground is quaking and everyone looks dead around me. Too much grief for something basic, for something underserving. I fall.

When everything was cleaned, I finally clocked out and ran the fuck home, almost killing the moon. Daydreaming about everything that I was going to do to you. I bashed through the front door, running up the stairs leading to our room. Unbuckling my pants, taking off my shoes before opening the door, and there you were, on the bed, and there was I, pants off and hard, while you were sleeping and snoring in your favorite blue blanket. I laid down next to you, turning blue myself. “Well, I guess I’ll get my book by Marx and read.”

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