I broke down towers
of lettuce at work,
tightly packed in boxes
around twenty pounds each.
It was a cancelled order,
my boss furious at her boss
asked me to level the towers, high as my arm’s reach,
as fast I can, we need to salvage
the lettuce, surreal as that might sound.
I took the boxes to
the old ladies singing in Portuguese
to be sorted out,
imagining myself in a classical
in a scene
where my persistence is being tested
before the all is well resolution, fade out, and credit rolls.
At home, staring at a blank page supposedly
to immortalize my ordeal,
I give up, not because of my numb arms
but in confronting that
a chapter in one’s life, is another’s entire book.