The Marlboro Man

He looks good, with an air of never caring
one way or the other. Refreshing, in a world
of ego’s overflowing from stuffed pin-stripe
shirts on display literally everywhere.

He doesn’t care much for the office gossip
or the greedy little suck-ups gathered round
like chickens in a clutch. He takes breaks
with us, out back by the loading dock.

He probably never noticed me in my rubber
boots and my greasy brown apron tied twice
around my waist. I could change my blouse
and comb my braids out before break.

He never stays long, just a few quick puffs
on that Marlboro light cigarette as he keeps
mostly to himself leaning against the bricks
like he’s one of us. What time is it…?