Mr. Coffee-Cup-Out-The-Window — "Job Creation," He Calls It

Lyrics

Just the last drop.
Cold and sweet on the bottom.
The red light on Elm Street, 9:14 in the morning.
You sit there in the cupholder, little paper soldier.
Your mission is over.

A window whirrs down, just a crack.
Just enough for a hand.
A flick of the wrist, a small goodbye.
No ceremony.
You tumble out into the morning,
a flash of orange and pink.
And land with a soft, hollow thwack on the shoulder.
He doesn't look back.

He calls it job creation.
A little stimulus package for the highway department.
Trickle-down economics for the man with the neon vest and the long-handled claw.
Civic engagement at thirty-five miles an hour.
That's what he tells himself.

The light turns green.
His mid-range sedan is gone.
But you're still here.
A bright, misplaced thing against the grey gravel.
The dandelions and the cigarette butts are your new neighbors.
You watch the tires blur by, a constant roar.
Waiting.

He calls it job creation.
A little stimulus package for the highway department.
Trickle-down economics for the man with the neon vest and the long-handled claw.
Civic engagement at thirty-five miles an hour.
That's the story he's telling.

But later, under a different sun,
a man whose name doesn't matter to the driver,
he'll stoop down.
The grit of the road on his gloves.
He doesn't think about the economy.
He thinks about the heat on his neck.
He thinks about the next one, and the one after that.
This isn't a job created.
It's a burden, passed.

You'll sit there for a week.
Maybe a month.
Your plastic lid will be here for thirty years.
A little monument.
To a man who drove away clean.
So clean.