workin’ it (20170207)

i fight to keep my eyes open
though some mornings
i fight to keep them closed

how bored do you have to be
to want to take a sales call
and only avoid it because
you don’t want to disappoint
the caller?

this overcast weather must have
something to do with it
i almost wrote a poem
about the sunday chicken dinners
from my childhood
and realized
that sounded familiar
and looked it up

damned if i hadn’t
already covered the subject
down to the smell
of wet bird
and stray feathers
in the roasted skin

i wonder if my brother
missed them because he
was in a hurry
missed them because he
didn’t care
missed them because he
was already smoking dope

every poet repeats
we’re broken records
does anyone understand
that metaphor anymore?
when you say that
do people think only of runners
shaving off a tenth of a second?

someone walks by and laughs
and i can’t decide if i should
be happy they have something
to laugh about or put my face
through my monitor

someone’s phone rings
the cubicles are open
and all our ringtones identical

i look to see
if it is my phone
it isn’t

11 thoughts on “workin’ it (20170207)

  1. Wow. This is a powerful lament. Your reference to Sunday chicken dinners (of all things) sure struck a chord… For years of my life, my mom graced our Sunday evenings with a roast chicken from Albertson’s, announcing “Chicken’s in the oven…” as if daring us to issue protest. You’d better believe we never once did. 🐔

    1. Every weekend for years it was the same. Not that I’m complaining about the food. It was always good, and did my mom know how to fry a chicken! Her meatloaf, on the other hand…

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