Broken beak, broken wings, broken bird, Stretched still and lifeless and dead On the fire and brimstone pavement labored By me, a fast food employee, newly 16. And it wasn’t the only one. On the other side of the fading brick building, A cracked companion soaked in the sun, With parched and brittled feathers, rotting So, I dustpaned them up, Tossing them into a billowing trash bag As if it was just another cleanup- Just another day. I slowly sulked by Dragging the dusty charcoal dustpan, bag, and broom Catching glimpse of a sign perched up in the sky That is a stop sign red. I was let in by an aged woman With a dark leathered face And the dirty uniform apron, We all had to wear. She’d been there for 20 years. It all started with a baby, out of wedlock, An adios to a collegiate career, And a need for part time cash. She’s stuck in the ruts, Which are sloshed with hamburger grease, Branded by blistering burns and callous cuts, Which are stagnant like the stench of deep fryers. She plays the daily game of 20 questions, Like “How many nuggets are in a 4 piece?” She quells the crowd of commuting Christians Fresh outta church, fresh with judgment. Some say she used to sing, Melding her melodies to the Machinery’s Beep beeps, or the cashing’s cha-ching, In between the dirt ridden bills, crinkled like her skin, now I wondered ‘bout the wrecked birds, later. I asked her, “What broke the birds’ flight?” “They think they can just fly through here, unscathed” she said. What if...Dickenson was right? This poem was written by Tyler Rhorick. Send an email to [email protected] to get in touch.