The Shawshank Redemption: Part of A Series of Poems
Substituting for Movie Reviews I Never Got
Around To Writing
I go back to the part
where hero prisoner Andy, prior
to that great escape, successfully
walks past his boss, the warden--
an actual warden, mind you, not
the pretend ones at your job--
without him noticing that Andy
is wearing his shoes.
A big flaw, I've come to realize
after being around bosses
who like to pick at your clothes
like balls of lint on their sport coats.
Once, they said my lab coat
made me look like a butcher,
so they had me wear a size
so small and tight, my shirt sleeves
stick out like the heads of children
spying behind theatre seats.
They commended me, made side bets
on how long I could work
with my breath held in.
A boss isn't happy with your dress
until he catches you walking while
looking at your shoes, despairing
that you'll need new ones soon
or gazing at the reflection in your shine,
trying to stare down your own face,
strained from it's own constant adaptation
losing, turning away, just before
the boss tells you good-night.
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