I finish my gig driving a yard truck
and unloading trailers, getting paid
under the table like a teenager so I can
still collect unemployment as the sun
peeks over Wilmerding, over the trees
and the houses made of shingles
and the empty churches made of stone
and drive to McDonalds for an Egg McMuffin
then read poetry for an hour in my car
until the Goodwill opens so I can buy
a new used suit because my only suit
is 20 years old and I’m a lot fatter now
mostly from eating fast food, from eating
the cheapest things still covered in cheese
and the suit is not bad, blue with pinstripes
and I wear it to the interview where there
are no interview questions, just small
talk about TV shows I’ve barely heard of.
When I leave the woman who interviewed me
wraps me up in an embarrassingly long hug
then kisses both my cheeks like we’re starring
in a mob movie. I look for hidden cameras.  

Next week she hires me.  

On my first day I find her
openly weeping in her office.

Dave Newman is the author of seven books, including The Same Dead Songs: a memoir of working-class addictions (J.New Books, 2023). He lives in Trafford, PA, the last town in the Electric Valley.