Work

A tattoo, etching graffiti-like script at the base of his strong neck,
Caught my eye,
He seemed more intent, better, intense than most—
Embedded in the public-use PC set up for searchers like him.

His hand shot up when he heard the magic word—
Job. . .anyone wanna job, willing to work?
“Me, sir!”
That’s what I’m up to here. . .I need work today.

Overly young to be so set on work—way determined,
Starched jeans—two sizes too baggy,
Snow-white shirt, sneakers—real clean,
Both shoes and dude. . .ready to work, so young.

Polite, but undeterred from the objective,
“When will you know, sir?”
“You see, I gotta work.”
“Will somebody teach me how?”

The call will come once the deal is set,
My hopeful, weak promise offered him. . .not knowing if the deal
Will ever be a deal or make—deals are hard here,
“Call me sir, please. Gotta a card I can take?”

I hand off a card—will the numbers there be worthless
Providing no relief to this young face—
Turning back to the screen to scroll and search murmuring,
“I gotta get to work!” I know.

“Live in Dallas?”—the question comes to me at last,
Where are you from?
Got family here? Walking? Driving? Light rail?
“New Orleans was where I stayed—but I need work.”