frantic fingers falling through my hair,
as i politely stare, into the abyss of nothingness.
am i dressed alright? Is this skirt too tight? Am I here too early?
Am I late?
The smiles which devour me whole, as i of course, as i
shake your hand-(always shake their hand-good grip nice and tight but solid)
frantic fingers falling through my hair.
(do i have lip-stick on my teeth-ugh-too late)
They fire their questions, uzi-style, rapid-fire and
often they ask me questions i totally do not know,
like how much i would like to make an hour-that one i fall down often enough,
because then they give the real answer of how much they will pay.
Questions too, like do i mind if a client becomes violent?
Gee-whiz no-who would mind that?
there often seems to be a hidden cheat sheet-multiple choice=always choose C.
If i sound bitter, i am not, i am just a bit broken and wore out.
Nobody seems excited to meet me, instead they are looking
for a sense of urgent perfection, i cannot measure up to.
So yes, frantic, fingers falling through my hair,
as i try to not fuss, fidget or wiggle,
Knowing I probably won’t make the cut,
my dial is always stuck on