I bought a cheap suit for a cheap job, and

styled my hair after my grandfather's photo.

The wild west in me hung

like a mis-buttoned vest on a scarecrow.

I noticed Kafka's initials, and then some,

carved into the coffee room formica,

"No poets need apply"'

yet the waiting room waited.

Umbrellas, lunch boxes,

the overhead news, one person

in twenty read a book with no pictures.

Rumors of sunlight rippled

like so many duck feet

across a pond. Hearing my name mispronounced

 I reach for a stranger's hat.

Looking for my keys, my cues,

I remember the early research.

Money never loves what we do for it,

lifeless, it makes a living all the more.


Will SchmitComment