Making the Coffee

After 30+ years I’m still making                  the coffee,

cleaning the break room,

and getting after the careless people who

don’t cover their food in the microwave                               or wash their damn dishes.

I’m a well-paid                                  maid, I guess!

I shouldn’t complain.                                      Yet I do,

especially when some little punk comes along

expecting more, and getting       everything

handed to him while I

plug away every day, cleaning

up after the mess he leaves behind.

I do the job,                       I get paid.

Thankful that I have                        a job.

A good job.         It pays   the bills.

Eventually, the punk

moves on to the bigger                                 and better

things ahead in his shiny life, the

advanced degrees, the wife,

the standard two point five kids,

the first house,

then the second house in

a better school district, the

two cars, and the membership to             the club.

Gotta cover the cost of a swelled head

and puffed out chest.                    Upward mobility is

a costly bitch.                                     Have fun in the rat race,                                               kid.

I live       within my means.

I keep                   my head down.

I do the job.                       I get paid.

I find it funny that

I’ve outlasted another                   ambitious punk

who stepped through the revolving door job.

He stuck around a little longer than the ones who came before                 him.

I think I’ll go make a        pot of coffee.                    After all this time,

I still do this        one task.             I don’t mind it.                  The younger set

would claim that it’s some                           misogynistic plot.             Whatever.

I know I don’t have to do it, but                I do it if

I want a good                                                                                                                                     cup of coffee.

The others make it                          too weak.            I like it strong.

I know that someday someone else

will have to do it after I retire                     —that is,

if they don’t       force me out first with a               buy-out

Or           a pink slip.                                                           For now

I do the job.                       I get paid.