Garment District Poem by Je'free Y .

In the freezing January rain,
I would wait for the 7am bus
To make it to the jewelry and garment district,
And report to my Persian boss.
Usually, Monday was the arrival of packages
Of ordered socks that we had to bring in
Via a dolly and an old, squeaky, narrow elevator.
While every muscle strain was traced on my face,
There was no tinge of compassion
Traceable on my co-workers' faces.

I thought downtown was the coolest place to be;
Guess not when you go further to the east.
Heaven heard me beg for an immediate thick skin
That I had not developed yet,
A little bit more patience, knowing there is so much
More to me than callousing these dirty hands.

Not only do people here spoke different languages,
They had agenda that would milk you, even your spirit,
For every penny they put in your paycheck,
And store your heart in their warehouse
Where you could only dream of a better alternative
To pay your bills and loans.