By Wes Hutcheson

I can’t wait any longer for
1 p.m. to arrive.
Work will reach its finality at day’s end, and once again I will rest without peace.
I am left-handed, not by choice but bureaucrat’s whim.

The struggle my lone arm bears is apparent in its perpetual crimson hue.
Please let the aching stop.
My master allows me to breathe but once a day.
Each time I muster the courage to tell him how I feel, he shuts me up again, suffocating me.
Disheartening as it is, my life was chosen for me.
Due to my illiteracy, I do not understand the information constantly shoved down my throat.
Master expects me to regurgitate the data at will. The task is more than I can handle at times.
I spend my days lost and confused in my work. At least I have one day off a week to rest, Thank God.
The kid up the street, my
arch-enemy, has made several attempts at me and my
colleagues with his damn
baseball bat.
Some of them have not been as fortunate as I.
They will simply be replaced.
My neighbors, with their popular color, radiate significance.
This is the color that separates them from me . . . diocrity.
It is color that signifies and promises their strength
of being.
I am the black one confined at the end of the block.
I am the one with the serial number of solitude tattooed
on my side.
This is the number that marks me different from my betters, though the variance is slight.
My life is one of neglect, confinement, and abuse.
It is an existence not of my choosing.
I’ve paid my dues, let me lower my arm!
Check the mail.