The Temps

And we’d sit at

Desks or hover about

In warehouses for

A limited time only

 

Temp workers

Temp walkers

In time, in step

Within the tempo

Always hoping for the

Upswing into the

Fullness of time and

Persimmon freshness of

A personalized timecard

 

And I’d gather with the

Blacks, browns, whites

With the eyes of a late

Night flight

 

Trying to hustle

Some extra

Money

 

It seemed a lot of

The Filipinos had full

Time jobs, mostly at

The post office

 

And I sat with them

At 11pm stuffing envelopes

While on the lookout for

Inequality control

 

They were

Making extra

Money for

 

Mortgage payments

Dental payments

Rental payments

Tuition and the extras

That rose in the light

Of intuition

 

And the

Temps were

Cool

 

And we’d sit in

The break room waiting

For our food to heat

In the microwave

 

And our temporary/

Permanent/part time/full

Time dreams would erupt

And interrupt the temporary

Sanity

 

Pop, snap, slap

Hiss, bubble

Smoke, tear

 

And it came out

Of the microwave

 

That good food,

Adobo, pancit, fish

Rice—all the stuff that

Would stink up that

Place  where the temps gathered

 

That smell

Brought us

Together

 

Permanently

 

© 2016 Tony Robles

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