The interview

She smiles dutifully
And answers prim
The questions premeditated
And posed by him.
Her brown skin is pale,
Her black hair pulled
Neatly back, and
Her bangs don't move
When she nods her head
And acquiesces
And blinks her eyes
In painful yesses.
But when goes to the other room,
Her shoulders slump,
Her eyes look sad,
And I can't tell
Whether she really wants the job
Or not.

I want to tell her
That she can do better,
But I don't for fear
That she'll misunderstand,
Think I'm criticizing her interview skills,
That she could be doing better at that today,
When my heart's cry
Is just to say
That my wish for her
Is a better place to employ herself
Than here at McDonald's
With this creep that's sizing her up.
Maybe I wish someone would have told me that
Thirty years ago.

-jenn