Drifting in and out of the daily news.
Coming up only to tip the glass
or the ruby-lipped waitress.
**First published in Ink Nest Poetry magazine
Outside, faceless sharks in corporate attire
maneuver between bento-box lunches
and the office cubicle.
This is as much as I will attempt today:
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