Working for minimum wage at McDonald’s
certainly limits your horizons, giving
a faint view over the rim of an onion ring,
a glance through the slats of French fries.
I launch used cups like 3’s into the trash cans.
Don’t they know I’m gonna be a basketball star?
My manager’s constantly on my case.
“You didn’t clean up the tables.
You undercooked the burgers,
overcooked the chicken.
I’m gonna have to let you go, D.J.
You’re really not cut out for retail.”
No kiddin’, man, I think.
That’s OK, I’m gonna be an all-star.
Boss continues, “How slow you gotta be
if I hafta fire you from this place?”
“That’s OK, man,” I tell him.
“I’m gonna be an NBA highlight reel,
clean up in the paint, instead of
cleanin’ up stupid tables,
run the fast break instead of wishin’ for one,
ring up points instead of the stupid register.
Wait and see if I don’t; I’m outta here.”