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.