Stand still too long, kid,
I make one call?
And you disappear.
Like so many before you.

I watch from middle of midway
while you set up, arrange the concession,
clean in front sweeping all trash
cigarette butt from front there.

See, you wear blue polo or green tee shirt my wife give to you when she pick you up at Newark Airport.

I wear clothes I buy myself at Nordstrom’s, green shirt gray slacks red tie and also please note:
one white diamond on tie for each ungrateful asshole kid who did not bring in a good till,
who break my balls with getting sick, coming late to work, sneak out early, or taking a piss without first asking permission
from Yuri my son and midway manager.

Now I tell you this while lighting second Davidoff cigar this morning:
You shut up your shitty complaining,
you smile for customers,
you be here until shift ends at midnight,
and in three more weeks I hand you back your passport,
my wife drive you back to Newark Airport with your shirt you may keep,
and you ride Aeroflot back to that shithole of a farm village
and your life of fucking goats that God smile down to you with,
only now, this time,
you understand what the real power is.

Not like the stories of Stalin and Khrushchev your illiterate, shit-licking parents told you,
but real God’s Balls power.

This I have given you here in America,
wisdom such as you could not pay for if you were as rich and successful like me:
a taste for the bottom of the shoe,
bitter rage at fat, grinning Americans who play your concessions,
love for edge of starvation from two three-dollar food vouchers a day and the greasy scraps from my snack concessions here on midway,
the cold embrace from deep, black hatreds strong enough to squeeze the stupid from you,
drive you through this life
and even drive you out of it
if you ever so much as
about a better life
than that

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