Laminate Countertop

[Verse 1]
You fold the returned tablecloths from the Masonic Temple brunch,
the polyester rough on your knuckles, still smelling of stale mimosa and someone else's lunch.
It’s the third Sunday, and the fluorescent lights above you have a nervous hum,
like a fly trapped in a jar, wondering where the next breath is coming from.
Your manager's last words, "Smile, it's part of the uniform," echo off the tile,
while you're mapping the cracks in the plaster, charting each one for a little while.
The hope in your chest has a hairline fracture, a split you can feel when you breathe deep,
a promise you made to yourself in the dark that the day shift just can't keep.

[Beat Switch]

[Verse 2]
You remember that one-off catering gig you worked on Grosse Ile in late October,
how their front hall smelled of nothing at all, just clean, a quiet kind of sober.
The kitchen island was a slab of granite that stayed cold even in the heat,
the sound of your worn-out work shoes a sin on their polished concrete.
You saw the dust motes dancing in a sunbeam that fell through a two-story window pane,
and you knew that their dust was different, it didn't carry the weight of rust or rain.
It’s not that you wanted their money, you just wanted a foundation that wasn't laminate,
a floorboard that wouldn’t whisper the name of every debt you’ve had to accommodate.

[Outro]
The last bus home tonight pulls away from the curb, a ghost in the exhaust.
You check your watch, it's 2:17 AM, and you tally up what the quiet cost.