SAFE DISTANCE EDITION - Stone Soup Croutons, 10-20-21: Two Weeks Away

Stone Soup Croutons is a weekly poem I write using lines and impressions picked from Stone Soup Poetry's open mic readers and features. I figure out a title (and sometimes the rest of the poem) later. You can read the other ones I've done since 2015 here.

 

I also have a book out now collecting the best of my first year of poems. Click here to purchase it.

Another open mic this week because I can't organize anything lately. I'm thankful for the poets. Not only did John Sturm did a full recitation of Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven," but there was a surprise return from Toni Bee!

I ended up writing about work. Not my job, but...somebody's. I still have a job to go to. It's been a while since I've a last day at anything in a little while. I guess I'm wondering what the next big one will be. Hence the poem. Thanks for reading.

 

 

Two Weeks Away

 

Declaring retirement date

on the Day of the Dead

sets off no alarm

after years of pounding

pavement with your face,

your head snapping off

at a boss's glance

from practicing compromise

The Good Riddance party

will insist your say 

your final words ever

ahead of time in a room

of heaving peers.

Their going away present 

is whatever you put inside 

of you before finally going.

Any bodies left over

are yours to bury, unpaid.

A tip: The Statue of Liberty

hides others like this 

all the time while she

waits for a suitor. 

The gift of blame will be 

doled out in the group think

farewell card, a great pumpkin

in place of a bouquet

with as much human touch

as the homeless. Now Lenore

is your dream girl forevermore.

Incantations will be required

to collect that final paycheck,

enough for a cow to make up

for your shaved income.

Never made enough to pay

for electrolysis on your dancing

bear body, not even worth

selling to science. No hope

for a shoestring budget romance.

More likely for someone

you barely knew to come claiming

their large brood is yours. 

T/he theory of your terror

whispered in shared hallways

has gone airborne into you,

slowing becoming true.

Family poet has no credit

other than one stray cat

who thinks he's living the dream,

anticipates him being

your new full time center 

of attention, thinks you can

sew him a blanket from scratch

while you consider interviews

for a consultancy position

on stunted revolutions.

You are a longtime expert.

Sorry for poor lighting. Taken before sunrise.

Special thanks to Mary Jennings, Jon Wesick, Rita Rusty Rose, Nancy Dodson, Ed Gault, Carol Weston, C.C. Arshagra John Sturm, Chris Fitzgerald, Bil Lewis, James Van Looy and Toni Bee.