February ninth (and tenth) time

for the first line of my résumé,
I glued the dirt in my fingernails
to the ivoryheavypage. I told
the man in the pinstripe suit
about washing dishes, about
sweeping, about praying.
the next line was blood
from a scratch I got riding
my bikewithoutbreaks.
the third, a tear stain
from watching my brother,
drenched with hunger, fade
into the soil. this would
convince him, I was sure,
that I could work--that I knew
how to balance a budget,
that I could negotiate.
that I had as much experience
as a person can bear.
(little did I know that it was
all written in a language
that he couldn't read)