Hunched over, raked over the grill, hands in ice water
burgers fries shakes burgers fries diapers burgers
gas shakes shirts outgrown again burgers not
another pair of shoes shakes backpack fries
shakes student loan default, snake eyes—
This could be you.
Sorry, Mama, I just can't tonight.
Bring your own apron. Bring your own
gloves. Don't bring your upbringing into it.
Shake it.
This could be better. This could be
temporary. This could be now
and again boxcars to
nowhere unless
you and you and you
walk out, head high.
Alisa Golden writes, makes art, and teaches bookmaking with letterpress on the side at California College of the Arts. Her stories, poems, and essays have been published in 100 Word Story, Diagram, and NANO, among others. She is the author of Making Handmade Books and edits Star 82 Review in the one-square-mile city of Albany, CA. www.neverbook.com
