Our song is closing cooler doors.
Stacking bread crates.
Our song is the baler crushing cardboard.
And the silent moments before I broke those glass vinaigrette bottles.
Our song is laughing at our messes,
and laughing harder at the coworkers who spilled a brand new crate of salsas.
Our song is the boxers swinging between the aisles.
And chip boxes being pounded into.
A song sung so beautifully, consistently together.
Our song is my favorite song, a song I flip for on the radio.
But come up empty.
Our song is sung from opposite sides of the building in the darkness of an early morning shift.
When we are sleep-hungry and hyped up on coffee.
Our song is the tangent you'd run on about old-time shows and your variety of favorite interludes.
And something I could easily relate to.
How silent we were before we started singing, and our song started off so quiet, awkward, and slow.
But once we found our rhythm, it was more than could be lost.
A friendship blossomed between last-minute help and a last-minute stay.
A friendship blossomed from a trashcan overflowing with rotten zucchinis and red grapes.
A friendship shared between us and the cold, metal shelves and heavy locker door of the cooler.
A friendship warm enough to keep our jackets on the hook and our gloves rolled into our back pockets.
Our song new, but catchy.
Our groove is undeniable and unconquerable.
A brilliant rhythm unbreakable by even the unnatural rudeness weaving in and out from between us.
YOU ARE READING
Punctuation
PoetryPunctuation means everything. Punctuation does everything. Punctuation is everything. I'm promoting punctuation. Promoting bringing commas back, promoting exclamation points, promoting questions and promoting finishing sentences when they need to...
