Nightshift at Dunkin' Donuts
by Greg Razran
Sunday, August 11, 2002
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In this crumbling town,
As dead as Michael Boltonís career,
I keep the keys
To the kingdom of sugar and caffeine.
The local gentry of
And mental patients
Line up my counter,
Night after night.
The boss isnít looking,
And I give them free refills,
Feeling like Robin Hood.
Women with dozens of dirty kids,
And more on the way
Share the space with
Laid-off EJ workers,
These ghosts of this ghastly town
Have flocked together like mad birds,
Beckoned by the promise of French Crullers
And Irish Cremes.
I donít love them.
I just keep the promise,
And silently fill their cups,
As the rain throws itself
Against the windows.
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|Reviewed by Daniel McTaggart
|I'm a nightshift worker myself at times. I love writing and reading about people at that particular period. They seem to exude poetry. The one thing that scares me is a town as bad off, if not worse than, as Michael Bolton. That's pretty low.
|Reviewed by Jessica Horton (Reader)
|Very nice. Well done. The setting itself is unexpected, and it only gets better from there! Very realistic, Greg. I can see this rag-tag band without any effort at all, and as the poem ends, I can imagine looking through the rain-soaked windows, watching the whole scene play out. Nicely done.|
|Reviewed by Masarat Daud (Reader)
|Very good write Greg. The ending was the best because it doesn't categorise the poem as a "happily ever after" ending...it just continues and that's the best part.|
|Reviewed by Sailor Neptune
|ooooh haunting true though what isnt of the day lives out in the night....