Observations of a Bookstore Cashier

Sitting around earlier, just after getting off the phone with my fiancée, who was heading to bed, I was mulling over my thoughts, concerns and anxieties, which countless people ranging my own parents to co-workers have aroused because they keep asking me to account for what I will do after I finish my degree. They keep demanding results, and unreal expectations for me to exceed, and I am left feeling stupid because all I ever say in response is "I don't know ... I just want to get out of the house," that is, my temporary defraying, impotent answer that will stave off, or bemuse, as I realize, further unanswerable questions. It's not to say it's not true that I want out of this place, but I can't produce something tangible that will allay their anxieties, or at least re-assure them that I'm going places, or prove I escaped the nightmare they keep dreaming in waking life, which I only ever read about in good literature. Why does it seem like everywhere in life vicarious people want others around them to do the struggling for them, but reap the benefits of another person's sowing?

"Observations of a Bookstore Cashier"

Every day I see the line-ups down
the aisle, hang-ups brought to the counter
with no receipt but they want refunds now
for things they never wanted, or purchased.

They cry, they threaten, they just keep coming
back, buying up more tales of misery,
cheap thrills, purchasing ink and paper dreams,
in debt to books, our cabin getaways.

But they just keep coming, an endless line
of telephone calls without a quarter
to dial, or an answering machine
to pick up what I’m trying to tell you.

No one notices I watch the line-up
or thanks me for giving them the right change.