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
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
**First published in Red Noise Collective