I walked into the office, took a seat, positioned my hands close to my chest
As if I was holding a winning hand in poker.
*Of course everything that occurs during a job interview is a gamble.
Even halitosis can trigger an unpleasant memory in the interviewer.
Leaving a label applied to a dismissed face, shamed in its rejection.
But that afternoon I twiddled my thumbs in confidence.
Capitalism had me a fiend for employment. So-when he extended his hand
For a shake, I gripped it with gorilla strength and watched his eyes wince
From my dominance.
I never got a call back.
But how many afternoons have I sat
Filling the lines of notebook pages?
Inscribing confessions of grandeur.
Plausible explanations for why I,
Or any matter, should take form
And develop thoughts conducive to believing:
“I have something to offer!”
Poetry is a survival technique.
And also garbage.
Poetry is the excitement found
In a mundane afternoon.
Poetry is sitting by the window
Wondering why the neighbors
(Husband & Wife)
Don’t kiss each other when they say goodbye.
Or wondering why the police
Keep driving by the apartment.
*I am innocent of any crime. I swear!*
But guilty of wanting more from existence.
Than a paycheck
And a pat on the head