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As the job requires a clean-cut look,
shave the beard. Not an easy process
in a poorly lit bathroom
in an overpriced hotel.
They advertised for a production manager,
experienced, task oriented,
willing to work evenings and weekends.
Interview at 3:00 sharp he said.
Another stroke with the razor,
calculating money in your head,
skip lunch and save ten bucks
— but only two more days for the car rental.
Eight months on Unemployment, shit,
seems more like eight hours,
or sometimes eight years.

You should leave early.
So much traffic here, busses whizzing by,
people walking down the sidewalk to this or that,
diners and elevators packed,
revolving doors continuously revolving.
It's a photo of some city in a magazine,
except you're in it.

The long-haired woman in the adjoining room
a lovely bit of passing lust.
She gave you "the look" imagine that,
but it only made you miss home the more,
your old bed, your garage, your tools.
Tonight, call home.
Tell her hopefully the interview went well,
that you think that you are doing okay,
that you believe things will work out,
and miss her.

Your face in the mirror,
same face in a different place.
It's all the same, only your age changes.
Twenty-five, fifty-five,
your life as one continuous stream.
Ah hell you know
it's all written in the stars anyway.
And Fate is a gift
to help us grow.

Wait: there's an old favorite song
coming from the radio:
Da, da da-da, da-da, da da da da.
Da, da da-da, da-da, da da da da.
Finished shaving. Put on your old suit.
Let's do this.