Is it Break Time Yet?

I start my shift,

as the sun clocks out.

It does not wish to see my misery.

Adorned with obligatory skirt

and rebellious alligator sandals.

A sleek black braid

keeps my shoulder company.

Les Gitanes in my apron pocket,

waiting for me.

“Come in! Now!”

Lucian scolds,

his hands waving over his head

The café is a pot of activity.

I clear away dishes, wipe tables,

and sometimes I serve coffee.

Bangs and spills,

Clatters and drops,

The sounds of my nightmare

a perpetual clamor.

My fingers itch for a smoke.

Is it break time yet?

Outside of the café,

smoke curls and caresses my face.

My feet take turns holding their weight.

Then, leaning against the back wall, I watch.

Face after face streams by,

as if they were on a conveyor belt,

identical and indistinguishable from the other.

“Marie-Jean!” my name

in a booming voice. I sigh.

Five minutes are up.

Still, I watch

chairs scraping pavement as customers depart.

Would they take me with them?

I wonder every day.

Another shout from within,

I sigh deeper.

Stepping into the pot again,

I think,

is it break time yet?