Sick Day

Washed into the shallows
of an uptown bar,
drifting in and out
of the daily news,
coming up only to
tip the glass or
the ruby-lipped
waitress.  

Outside, faceless sharks
in slippery attire
maneuver between
bento-box lunches
and the office cubicle.

This is as much as

I will attempt today:

feigning illness

for a few deep breaths

above the waterline.

Christ, they will drag you under

if you surrender to it.

Poor Bernard,

just last week suffered

a coronary at his station.

Colleagues passed him by

for hours presuming

an afternoon nap.

Helen is on life support

after a traffic accident

driving home

from her retirement party.

They were feeder fish,

treading the current

until Big Pharma

and a tide of medical bills

swallowed them whole.

Not me.

I am throwing back pints mid-day

crafting another exit strategy

that will evaporate with the alcohol.

This one involves a holy book

authored under mysterious circumstances,

a cryptic luminary

with blinding charisma

and undiagnosed sociopathy,

tax exempt status,

a call center in India

that provides spiritual counseling

to the downtrodden.

For a modest donation

you too

can experience 

a wave of miracles

in your life.


**First published in Red Noise Collective