long hot summer

words crawling the pages
like black ants

the meaning eludes me.

it’s a vicious summer
the sun barking like a dog.

there’s 2 workmen fixing the roof

the little guy sings
                        shot my wife
                        gotta get outta town.

it’s a hot vicious summer

the flowers are choking

and even Bukowski don’t help.

_________________________________________________________

fireworks

my co-workers at the supermarket

(my fellow slaves)
didn’t seem to realize
they were being exploited
they were always cheery
always showed up on time

i often said to myself
don’t they get it?

there was one woman who worked there
40 hrs. a week and 35 hrs. a week
at another place

when did she sleep?

maybe they all knew the truth
but kept those smiles on their faces
in spite of everything
(maybe i’m giving them too much credit)

i was always late for work
always clocked out early
wasn’t interested in promotion—
the managers worked 60 hrs. a week

every 4th of July they gave us
a small American flag

i told someone
they can keep their fucking flags
and pay us more money.

Ross Vassilev was born in Bulgaria and now lives in Ohio. He is the editor of the online magazine Opium Poetry (http://opiumpoetry.blogspot.com/).