a poem about my first job

First time I ever minded the junk store alone, man in a fringe jacket walked in,
A rooster clutched in his fist. He wasn’t looking to buy anything.
The first thing he did was, He showed me how
The bird’s head stood still: even when He swung it’s body, churning invisible butter.

The store was in a bad neighborhood. Whores were always stealing from the dollar rack outside.
Below the counter, I cradled my wrist between two fingers.
I watched the birds’ eyes, unblinking, calm, as his body snapped around and back--