I sat in this office
for the better part of 9 hours
the other day.
They said it was
pre-production
for some television show
about a Mole.
All I saw happen
was papers printed then looked at.
And people
trying to look
busier than
the next guy.
I thought about the
economy. Someone has to employee
these things I thought.
Someone has to provide
money for their time.
They asked me to go pick up
this
and take this to that.
and I did.
Getting into my old trusty friend
my '97 Mazda 626
my pimp ride,
(as I half-jokingly refer to him)
and going about the traffic
of the city
felt monumental
by comparison.
With old cowboy flicks in my head
I called my bucket of bolts a steed
and he knew
we were in this together.
Some studio secretary
with delusions of grandeur
thought this was the South
in 1860 and I was a slave.
"Your name is Toby"
she seemed to say
to me,
Without a word or a look.
She was busy with those
same papers
which may have been blank
for all I knew.
She breathed, ate, had motion,
but just like the others
She wasn't real.
I think she may have been
dead already.
But how sad.
She didn't
even
know it.
I came back
eventually.
And I remembered why
I don't work in an office.
---
My old dad
This one time
My dad
he came into
my bed room,
door creaking
door sliding
against the carpet
because the hinges
had been knocked off
more than
a
few times.
I was real busy
playing video games
or some shit
I guess.
And he said
"I'm goin’ over to Skaggs."
-
"Do you want to come?
Get your shoes on."
He stood there
waiting.
I didn't immediately
look up.
Thinking
to myself blankly,
almost able
to think
a thought
"I think he'll go away
eventually."
"Someday
your old dad
wont be here
to ask you
to go to
the
store
with
him."
he said
in
defeat.
I told him
something.
Just something.
Probably that
I
was
real
busy.
He said "okay"
and he shut
the door.
My sliding
dragging
bed
room
door.
And someday
He'll be dead.
And
I'll
still
just
be
real
busy.
---
Sometimes 2 Hours Isn’t Enough
I sometimes work
In a small office
on Westwood Blvd.
Its pretty busy outside
Shops
Buses
Pedestrians
Cars, cars
cars.
Used to be
a real nice area
I hear.
Right now I can hear the hum
of a Helicopter.
Gotta cover that 5pm Traffic!
Gridlock again on the 405
Infinite surprise and shock!
Every 2 hours I have to re-park
My car.
Every 2 hours.
I step outside.
Flight of steps.
Turn down the street.
Then attempt to cross
a white striped
cross walk
Sometimes they let me go.
Sometimes they don't..
When I get to my car
I usually listen
to just 1 song.
Today it was the Kinks
Do You Remember Walter.
And it made me miss
my dad.
I re-park
a few spots
over.
Then walk back.
Sometimes they let me go.
Sometimes they don't.
They finally
do.
And then I wait
for two
more hours.
S.P. Donohoe is a native of Sherman Texas who now resides in Los Angeles. He enjoys record shopping at Amoeba, riding on buses, trains, and subways, and eating at Taco Casa.
Sometimes 2 Hours Isn’t Enough
I sometimes work
In a small office
on Westwood Blvd.
Its pretty busy outside
Shops
Buses
Pedestrians
Cars, cars
cars.
Used to be
a real nice area
I hear.
Right now I can hear the hum
of a Helicopter.
Gotta cover that 5pm Traffic!
Gridlock again on the 405
Infinite surprise and shock!
Every 2 hours I have to re-park
My car.
Every 2 hours.
I step outside.
Flight of steps.
Turn down the street.
Then attempt to cross
a white striped
cross walk
Sometimes they let me go.
Sometimes they don't..
When I get to my car
I usually listen
to just 1 song.
Today it was the Kinks
Do You Remember Walter.
And it made me miss
my dad.
I re-park
a few spots
over.
Then walk back.
Sometimes they let me go.
Sometimes they don't.
They finally
do.
And then I wait
for two
more hours.
S.P. Donohoe is a native of Sherman Texas who now resides in Los Angeles. He enjoys record shopping at Amoeba, riding on buses, trains, and subways, and eating at Taco Casa.
