The Early Shift

by Amy Phillips

Morning is still black
my skinny legs dangle
from the plastic milk crate.

Eyes still crusted with sleep
my red hair lay in tangles
about my freckled face.

The stink of stale hot dogs
burnt coffee, mopping detergent,
and fresh sweat lingers in the air.

My beautiful sleepy mother
smelling of Jergens and cigarettes
stands on aching feet at the counter.

Men in dirty uniforms come
for the early morning cup and speak
too sweetly to my pretty young mother.

Through each coin exchange
men press her dainty work-worn hands
and she recoils from their oppressive touch.

With my thumb in my mouth
and California Skipper in my lap
I watch the yellow bus round the corner.

I move slowly from her
the stench of gasoline starts to fade
but her sad eyes behind the register remain.