Friday, October 22, 2021

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.

No comments: