Morning Routine

Guts death grip
when red lights explode 
the rear view.
Signal to the shoulder.
8:06 says the dashboard clock, 
still have to get gas after this shit’s over. 
Didn't last night since she was working,
Slither on past like the jerk I am
Take care of it tomorrow.  
Like my registration,
and tomorrow 
Like my fluorescent lit gas station bangs.
Tomorrow creeps by  
to entertain 
every possible iteration of fucked up
aggravated by my unrepentant sloth.  
And Estrada? 
that petty prick, makes manager? 
First order of business: Failing remedial douchebag leadership metaphors. 
Remember that doe-eyed shit, askin’ 
It’s ok I go have a smoke? 
Boss opens her office door, says, 
where the fuck’s the new kid?
I cover his ass. 
Now I work for him? 
Sits me down like things
have moved across the surface, 
pulled apart.
From this seismic activity
emerges a corporate logo that looks exactly 
like a cock print on his cheek, strutting,
sotto voce: Lotsa pressure up top, he says, fretting.
7:30 is the new eight! 
Adjust your morning!
 Don't be late! 
License and registration
both expired 
school zone, 
clocked at 75.