copper rivets in my jeans
another strange day

beguiling morning buttons
socks and shoes

breakfast is the Paris Review and
Van Gogh’s Lirios

there are temple bells in my in-basket
I am late for work

the telephone rings
and a Marxist complains about Gettier
I transfer him to Acquisitions

for lunch
I try to be Buddhist in the park
the ghost of my arthritic aunt Myrtle
drives by in a Dodge
a contented grin on her face
there is cinnamon on the wind

a meeting after lunch
best practices and liabilities
I disagree vocally
with all that is said
a co-worker kicks me gently
beneath the boardroom table

how can she know
there’s a bomb in my head
ready to explode
assigning marigolds, peace and penny candy
to every child of the world

it’s not much of a bomb, granted
in this age of self-detonating fools
but it’s the best I can do
considering the long commute home
and the sleep of vowels
in the deeply consonant night


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