Rest — Summary

when break time comes, it's actually fifteen minutes of break time for some and an hour for others; this depends on the employment contract.

so we find the uniformed staff sitting on any shady step, which are few, just as the breeze is weak. there are five on one side, four on the other. it's when the sad face lights a cigarette and savors the smoke with the taste of misfortune. and so many things have the taste of disgust! like alcohol. the taste of misfortune. the taste of misfortune even in a smile.

the less money left over from priorities, the less there is to buy complacent flavor with the proper reward. even with everything, the conversation goes on and on, talking about everything. everything until nothing can harm others when the imposing evil doesn't escape the lips.

it's very hot in the summer, very cold in the winter. here at least, there's a real chance of having a bad time because of the extreme weather. winter is even worse, because the supermarket break is outside, period. you can't stay inside. everyone outside! and if it's sunny, the sun is a gift. if it's cloudy, and most days are cloudy, in winter, then the cold is practically murderous, or torturous. it's never fun.

and it's a burden to bring food from home, because they check everything when you enter and leave. you have to account for it, so it's better to bring as little as possible. so what happens then? you buy what's for sale at the market. then you make a snack and wait.

those who work intermittently are the ones who suffer the most in this situation, even because of the uncertainty of everything. everything, really. because they wont even close their books for the month to guarantee a full salary, as we know. it doesnt seem good for commerce, except for the supermarket itself, which hires them and practically includes their purchases.

ah! the banks also bite hard because an account is necessary for the intermittent worker, read: precarious worker, to receive payments. they don't always work, they don't always get paid, but they always pay.

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The poem follows supermarket workers through their break, which turns out to be less restful than the title promises. The speaker describes uniformed staff scattered on the few shady steps, smoking and talking, while the weather works against them: too hot in summer, and in winter they're pushed outside, where the cold feels "murderous." Even bringing food from home is a hassle because of the checks at the door, so workers end up buying their snacks from the store that employs them.

The speaker's feelings come through in a tired, bitter, matter-of-fact tone. The repeated "taste of misfortune" makes even a smile or a cigarette seem sour. The sharpest anger is saved for workers on irregular hours, who face uncertainty and banks that charge them. The final line, "they don't always get paid, but they always pay," sums it up. The mood is weary and quietly resentful, like a complaint made flatly because nothing is expected to change.

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