Bullseye

My job is a job for the people who have been “hired for this sort of thing.”
Take the things that have been returned to the front of the store
And return them to the location identified for me,
A homecoming of product to metal shelf.
I also collect the ones that have been abandoned throughout the store
When the materialistic urge has passed.
(“I really shouldn’t buy this pair of shoes before payday.
I’ll leave them here in Automotives.”)

I must make sure each box is in single file, side to side,
Lined up across the front.
Each box must stand in a military line,
Connected to each other by their sides,
Creating a smooth exterior,
As if all the boxes were merged into one giant box identity,
Devoid of its own personality:
Uniformed diversity.

This store is a giant animal,
And everyday it is beaten by the little ants that feed on it,
Moving from its tail toward its head.
My small job is to, as unnoticeably as possible,
Re-tail the beast
So that it can fight again tomorrow.