Parking Girl
Anne Carly Abad
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Slim, boxy, emblemed or blank
no one has a say
when parking's full
everyone waits, wonders--
tiny booth in the heat
keeper of gates, when will you open?
The lady inside smiles
when a driver demands his ticket--
a spot has just been freed--
she waves his access and,
as thanks, he sucks air through puckered lips,
the closest she gets to a lusty kiss.
Shift ends, lines dissipate,
the roads lie worn and quiet.
No one vies for the parking girl's attention
as she plods through shanty town alleys
to crouch into a tricycle ride home.
Poet's Notes: A service job, a waiting job, the kind of patience involved in it must be a form of meditation or a fruit of imagination. What goes into an 8-hour shift intrigues me as much as my inability to stay put.
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