What interests me about the job…
a young, pants-suited woman tells another,
older, pants-suited woman.
Great boredom hums the room dead
and I’m waiting for attitude to pop
like champagne bottles off the hulls of new boats,
spend a month wagging a finger
at every molecule that musses the perfect waterline.
But I pulled a Pop Tart from the toaster
this morning and it was lacking dragon blood,
the dawn spilling shine into the kitchen
‘cause dark’s gears glisten greater
with a contemporary
and I felt ashamed feeling
a long-abandoned Biblical prick
poke when I was desperate,
lottery winner who had to prove his work,
this plainsong living bronzing my backbone to useless,
joyless steps craving youngman’s bounce,
heaven’s narrative so tree-thick
but lacking the yawning creaks of breeze-pushed pine.
I pulled the exploding rose from its alloy holster,
buttered the toast.