Hoola-Hoop Without a Hoola

The Monday rooster pecked Leon’s flaccid fingers into turning the sink knob. His gargle turned to drain guzzle. The hanger recalled its weekend-lost swing. Bristles labored another pull for stray hairs. Keys chimed a nag for the door.

Outside, a boy waited for the yellow bus that was prison-white in spirit. Leon’s engine as if responsive to the boy, grumbled. Revolving hubcaps reflected the sun who was like an exemplar—he spit into his palms and continued shining.

Leon steered his finale of steers into a parking lot more familiar than his face.

Under the cubicle’s flicker fight of a fluorescent white, a chair paced like a zoo monkey. A phone cleared its throat. Papers shuffled like dry leaves except they wouldn’t leave.

At 5:00, not 5:01, he was off. He was off. He was off.

Tuesday[?], the stench of blood and feathers startled him out of bed. Coffee was there to grease his gears. The employee-of-the-month picture kept smiling at him, smiling at him, smiling.