yuppie scum goes to work

Kelsey Kerin

 

after he cuts crusts off his sandwich so careful like his mother used to
toss  in the can on  top day-old  bread yogurt rice and the  leak down
well-sourced  plastic bags. the bottom’s  sour pooling is the accidental
smell of  every alley and car  he puked in  during business school. it all
worked  out once  he  bleached  his collar,  now someone  cleans  it for
him the  sun shines out his own  last name. his  chinos and  workplace
ergonomic mesh or standing  desk all harsh-lit and  sterilized by a lady
who  looks nothing  like his  mother,  so he  doesn’t  say her  name out
loud and can’t be sure he’s learned it in two years. note the softness of
his  hands, how  they are gripless. his  lapping  tongue.  note the rising
octave  in  his throat  when his  boss  says  boss  things,  the dropping
octave  on the  phone  or to the  underlings all  over-oiled  eager. plays
magnate.  her name  is cheryl, maybe. stuck to rising dropping bottom
line. a very liquid man will always swallow what he’s given.

 

 


Kelsey Kerin is a writer from St. Clair, Michigan. Her work can be found in Midwest Review. Right now she makes money teaching at the University of Iowa, where she’s an MFA Candidate in Poetry.