When I Get A Real Job

-Corwin Jones

When I get a real job,

two, or four, or eight states from Terre Haute,

where the rain doesn’t leave a film,

or smell like old eggs.

A real couch, in a real house,

with plants I water weekly,

money for a cat, and

so much wet food he gets fat.

Pots, pans, all new, and plans

for three square meals,

not one-hundred-and-twenty quesadillas.

Not that I mind a cafeteria : dorm : schedule.

Not that I mind waking—working—waking.

It’s just, I haven’t gone to sleep

on a different day than when I woke

in weeks.

When I get a real job,

I’ll never sleep on a couch again.

Not in Moench, or the NAB, or

the common room, when my bed’s too high.

Ten P.M. sharp—eighty-dollar pillows, a

glass of water on the nightstand,

and I’ll wake up,

first alarm.

And of course I’ll remember the people : friends : parties,

laughing, stumbling in the dark.

You aren’t meant to keep in touch

with the folks you knew in highschool forever;

college is different.

When I get a real job,

it’ll be different.

I will be. I hope—

I’ll figure it out

when I get a real job.