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 corporate 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'll drag you under

if you surrender to it.

Poor Bernard, last week 

suffered a coronary at his station.

Colleagues stepped past him for hours 

presuming an afternoon nap.

Helen survived twenty-nine years

at the company,

then died in a traffic accident

driving home from her retirement party.

They were feeder fish,

swimming the same current

until a tide of misfortune

left them flapping on the shore.

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 Ink Nest Poetry magazine