The Things We’ve Kept (the beginning of a series of things I write that I’ll keep)

There was puke in the garbage can.

No bag, no-holes-thank-god, white garbage can, food crusty splatters, in the kitchen.

The kitchen,

rushed into so fast the chipped rotting tiles were forgotten about and then remember so hard that

the first charge card of five expansive, punishing charge cards was opened so that so many nice rugs, carpets could be

bought to cover it up. Some of odd shapes and cuts, and many nice, chemical covered, slightly soft.

There was puke vomit that sat in, laid, rested, waited, in the garbage can.

There was throw up in the kitchen and it was stinking from the garbage can.

It was stinking

and Child Protective Services of Michigan (of the $40,000 a year

with full benefits kind (of the

“We regret to inform you”, no, no job, kind)) would have

taken us away from ourselves, kicking and screaming

because the garbage can and the throw up smell,

it comforted us. It came out of our charge card and our bodies and

we didn’t want to let it go or throw it away because

we weren’t sure what we might lose so

we kept everything that we could.

*                    *              *              *               *            *                    *                       *                            *                                  *

We didn’t keep our jobs because they punished us and we were better than them. We were

better than sexual harassment and

better than secret shopper hair ass meant. So we didn’t keep our jobs.

And because we didn’t keep our jobs, we didn’t have any money to keep and the

little we had felt so little we didn’t try to keep it, we instead

tried to spend it so we drank and drank because we didn’t have jobs and

we didn’t have money, only puke in the garbage can to keep and we kept it.

You lost your job one day. We were finally okay.

I had two jobs that didn’t pay that together

amounted to just barely okay and I was sitting

on the couch that day in the sun and you

walked in twenty minutes after you left in your

jersey, your ugly fucking boxy jersey that we

planned to write your name on the back of out of cartoon-letter-dinosaurs,

you came home in the sun and you looked stunned and you

told me they fired you and I didn’t believe you and then I didn’t believe them because you were

so good at what you did and you worked yourself so hard. (And that’s why you’re an asshole now at work–I was

the same way for awhile–you take on the management style

of the people who shit on you until you find a way

to be yourself and humane.)

We didn’t keep our jobs. (to be cont.)