Dropping The Euphemism
He has five children, I’m papa
to a hundred pencils.
I bought the chair he sat in
from a book of chairs,
staplers and spikes
that let me play Vlad the Impaler
with invading memos. When I said
I have to lay you off
a parallel universe was born
in his face, one where flesh
is a loose shirt
taken to the river and beaten
against rocks. Just
by opening my mouth I destroyed
his faith he’s a man
who can think honey-glazed ham
and act out the thought
with plastic or bills. We sat.
I stared at my hands, he stared
at the wall staring at my hands.
I said other things
about the excellent work he’d done
and the cycles of business
which are like
the roller-coaster thoughts
of an oscilloscope. All this time
I saw the eyes of his wife
which had always been brown
like almonds but were now brown
like the crust of bread. We walked
to the door, I shook his hand,
felt the bones pretending
to be strong. On his way home
there was a happy song
because de Sade invented radio,
the window was open, he saw
delphinium but couldn’t remember
the name. I can only guess.
[...] Read more
poem by Bob Hicok
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