The Patron Saint of High School Janitors Who Care so Much It Almost Kills Them
Justin KARCHER
High school janitors aren’t really high school janitors
they’re caretakers of heartaches that define a generation
they’re human gardens with strong soil in their stomachs
they roam the halls looking for invisible seeds hiding in trash
all the unformed flowers
symptoms of depression that everyone ignores
they eat crumpled balls of paper
poetic scribblings of someone who is lonely
someone who stays up all night throwing ink-filled boomerangs
from one side of town to the other
hoping that each one comes back tattooed with a message: I understand you
there’s no such thing as trash, especially when you’re young
you leave behind ghosts with everything you touch
so after their days are done, high school janitors sit in the middle of darkened football fields
they meditate for a while
then they eat what they collected during the day
hoping to absorb the pain that holds this country up
they swallow unfinished love letters
they swallow confessional essays that were never turned in
they swallow Starbucks receipts & feel the choke of sweetness we’re all dying for
they pass out at the 50-yard line & chlorine crows start circling their bodies
they wake up when the stars re-constellate themselves into more relatable myths
when it’s the weekend, all the high school janitors in America
blow off some steam by doing karaoke at bars where the bathrooms have no doors
they sing until their hearts go hoarse & they can’t feel anymore
they sing about boys named Jeremy & pumped up kicks
they drink too much & swipe lipsticks from unguarded purses
they write “We were merely freshmen” on the ribcages of highways
they break into school bus depots in the wee small hours
they hotwire the oversized yellow caskets & drunk-drive them into lakes
they swim up to the surface & crawl onto shore looking like an evolution of wild empathy
they shake like malfunctioning carousels until the sewage exits their hair
then their stomachs start growling at the same time & it all begins again
Justin Karcher is a Pushcart-nominated poet and playwright born and raised in Buffalo, New York. He is the author of Tailgating at the Gates of Hell (Ghost City Press, 2015), the chapbook When Severed Ears Sing You Songs (CWP Collective Press, 2017), the micro-chapbook Just Because You've Been Hospitalized for Depression Doesn't Mean You're Kanye West (Ghost City Press, 2017), Those Who Favor Fire, Those Who Pray to Fire (EMP, 2018) with Ben Brindise, and Bernie Sanders Broke My Heart and I Turned into an Iceberg (Ghost City Press, 2018). He is also the editor of Ghost City Review and co-editor of the anthology My Next Heart: New Buffalo Poetry (BlazeVOX [books], 2017). He tweets @Justin_Karcher.
