Intolerance
It seems that for years, and
In no matter what part of the country,
Every other time I walk in to pay:
For gasoline, or a six-pack, or maybe
To ask directions, some half-rotten fuck
Is there before me and he's just let loose
The lamest cliched one-liner to the bedraggled
Girl behind the cash register, who is attempting
To smile in that vacant, bored, over-sugared,
over-Marlboroed way -- and then -- he will
Turn to me with a self-satisfied chuckle,
Just so fucking delighted with himself, and
He expects me to share his pathetic foreplay,
But I wither him with one cold relentless stare.