At Work

My boredom was a moon I couldn’t quiet see, and I didn’t understand why it was a moon,

though it was, and not a gobstopper.  These were the thoughts that filtered through my head,

detaching themselves from the great haystack of thought sitting solemnly in the center of my “psyche.” 

Every so often, the wind blew, the haystack budged an inch.  You could say:

the wind was a symbol of a world, whose world you ask, and I want to say “everyone’s” but know

that sounds naive.  “Everyone’s” I say, and the questioner thinks in her head, “Everyone’s.”  The poem

could’ve ended there.  It didn’t; it needed to make sense out of a style between surrealism and everydayness,  

and it would use humor to melt the popsicle of frowning, to lift the skirt of solemnity slightly, enough for solemnity

to slap the poem in the cheeks.  “Ow” the poem says, and then “Hey,” to somemnity,

“can’t a guy in this town catch a break?”  Around this time the room darkened, the venetian blinds shut up,

and the man at the typewriter was smoking Lucky Strikes with a terrific infidelity.  Nadine walked into the room

with her characteristic feline slink – she was known to powder her hair and make a mean lemon cheesecake.  Anyways,

Roger looked up.  I wasn’t there – I was never there, because

I was stuffing myself with brownies.  Why, I couldn’t tell you,

though it had nothing to do with boredom, desire, or hunger.  I just liked brownies,

I mean I loved brownies, as much as I loved certain kinds of poetry, blah, cancel that last line. 

And so we turn our backs on the darkening night, where somewhere our hero gallops in his mind,

gallops to the stop sign, and then back again,

all the actors bow, and the curtain, a bedsheet with a pole through it,

falls down in elegant rumples, closing our sight to the tower forever.     

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