I should be mopping the ballroom floor with that mop
pushing dirty water around the place
yellow bucket chained to my ankle
pretending to be busy--fake busy I am
answering the occasional phone call from somebody clueless
hey I’m just the caretaker, I don’t know nothin’
but it’s a gray rainy day and I sit on a stack of some orange plastic chairs
I look out the side door and stare at the neon OPEN sign
flashing on and off at the bar across the street
there’s nobody else here--one of the perks of the job
year one was “we’re grateful, you’re doing a great job!”
year two was “why doesn’t he get more done?”
year three is “you need to do a better job.”
I told ‘em do what you gotta do
the quality or quantity of work hasn’t changed
but their attitude sure has
the more you do, the more they want you to do
and I don’t feel like doing much if anything today
or yesterday or last week or next week or next month
that red and blue bar sign keeps flashing at me “come on over”
looking at the molasses clock and drooling for 3 pm
then I’m over to the bar with dark wood, leather chairs and good scotch
