15/30

Finally caught up!

15/30 

tis the season to be called a fat bitch. 
this time last year was the first.
i remember because i wrote a poem about it,
and because it was the first.  
a little boy in a hulking man’s frame
hocked his temper tantrum across the counter
because i did not pause the person speaking
on the phone tell him to have a good day,
because i was busy and he needed all the attention, 
because he could.
this week a woman storms in all brash, 
all throw the food over the counter making mess,
all demand my manager look at her when she’s speaking, 
i snort at her ridiculous and she turns her privileged sneer my way,
asks if i’m laughing at her, 
i am, but I don’t tell her so, 
i also don’t tell her she’s as big as i am.
both of these people (and I use that term loosely)
so full of rage, so indignant, are in the wrong.
this time last year i was a spill of tears,
a kind woman waited patiently for me
to take several calming breaths,
to wipe away the wet, 
she thought i was sad or hurt but i wasn’t;
i was angry and crying is a side effect. 
this week i shrugged, as if to say i know, 
as if to say i don’t care, 
i have lived through this season once before.
i know what the harvest brings.