Symphony

Mary and Martha click and clatter, filling the executive hall with a flurry of administrative arpeggio. 

                A rest.

                “Martha.”

                “Yes, Mary.”

                “You will not believe the email I just received from our beloved Mr. Rogers CEO-Boss-Man.”

                “Won’t you give your labor?”

                “Cancel his flight to Chicago.”

                “No.”

                “Yes.”

                “No.”

                “Yes.”

                A rest.

                “Why, Mary?”

                “He no longer wants to go.”

                “After keeping you late last night to arrange the trip?”

                “Yes.”

                “He’s terrible.”

                “Horrible.”

                “Inane.”

                “Insane.”

                Mary and Martha swivel back to their instruments, striking ignited aggressions on little white letters.

                A rest.

                “Mary.”

                “Yes, Martha.”

                “Mr. Snyder CFO-Sir needs his shirts picked up from the drycleaner, and I have been sent to retrieve them.”

                Mary picks up a pen just to drop it in surprise. “You’re joking.”

                “I’m not.”

                “Unreal.”

                “For real.”

                “He thinks you graduated summa cum laude to pick up shirts?”

                “More like pick up the pieces of his life.”  They nod.

                “No appreciation.”

                “No perspective.”

                “No kidding.”

                Huffing and puffing, they swirl to squint at glowing plasma, recommencing the hall’s percussive chorus.

                A ring and the ladies jump.

                “Rogers CEO-Boss-Man.  That’s you, Mary.”

                “I wish it were you, Martha.” 

They smile.

Mary reaches for the phone.  “Why hello, Jacob.  Of course I can change the flight.  No, no problem at all.  On the website now—almost done.  Yes, I’ll send you the confirmation.  Yes, I will check your credit card to verify receipt.  Of course. Of course!  No problem.  Anything else, just call.  No, thank you!” A clang provides appropriate punctuation.

“Unbelievable.”

“Totally entitled.”

“Insufferable creature.”

“Worst boss ev-er.”

A rest.

“Mary?”

“Yes, Martha?”

“Who is worse—Rogers or Snyder?”

“Rogers,” says Mary.

“Snyder,” says Martha.  “He disdains and demoralizes, micro-manages and macro-maligns.”

“Rogers,” says Mary.  “He’ll wax and then waffle.  And—“ she leans in closer.

“What?” hushes Martha.

“He leaves nail clippings on his desk.”

“Nail clippings?”

“Indecent!”

“Unsanitary!”

“An animal!”

“A savage.”

And turning back, they clickity-clack, flicking fingers and stomping swinglines, plopping papers and banging bics, refrain resounding in their auditorium for two, own audience moved by the fury.  

Wednesday Happy Hour

Can you sit with me,

Here,

On this bench?

May I lay my head on your shoulder?

If you must know,

Today was filled with talking,

Ten-thousand words poured into a sound soup.

Now my head is full of phrases.

I’m not sure what they mean, but,

When it becomes apparent that we have successfully identified and implemented best practices that optimize processes across operational platforms through integrated solutions that reconfigure focus within vital sectors resulting in at least seven key indicators of growth including expanded market share and improved margins all while reducing costs and increasing profitability which in turn solidifies us as the industry leaders serving to usher us into a new millennium of those who work Better – Faster – Now,

I’ll be sure to let you know.

In the meantime,

Do you know what sounds nicest to me?

Your hand on my hand,

A cool breeze,

And a view of the Charles.

Sucker

Last night, my resolution to eat well

Flew out of my head

Straight into a moonful of sugar.

I ate it all but forgot to taste it.

I didn’t forget to clasp my stomach.

Today, I missed my morning prayers,

Walked right past the spot

Where I drop my knees.

Too glum to feign appreciation,

The universe can thank itself.

Now, I tell myself I won’t text you.

Now, I tell myself I won’t call.

I should tell you that I won’t text or call.

Oops, I sent a :)

That isn’t :(.  That isn’t       

Hopelessly Romantic

It was you who, plucking a kerchief from your breast pocket,

Reached over your shoulder and buffed away the smudge on the glass wall,

And me who, seeing through for the first time to a heart gently beating,

Realized that I was a hopeless romantic

And my eyes fell upon you.

This was no cupid’s arrow,

No strike that had me stumbling in the direction of an unknown.

No, this was a swell of a turn of a page,

A set of encounters that arranged themselves in pleasing verse,

And though not canonized,

Captured my eyes, my moment, and my tenderness.

When I tell you of my fondness for you,

It had little to do with your actually feeling back
(Although in dreams you could not help but reach for my hand).

It's in my mind that I can always reach back, smile up at your face,

Imagine lips crafted for kissing, if only with fingertips,

And there you can consent.

So take these words, if you like, and scatter them in the air;

It's too late to go back—you cleaned the wall, and now I know what I am.

But take these words, put them next to your kerchief, against your chest,

And if your eyes fall upon me,

And if you let fade to silence all the reasons and doubts and laws and hows,
We can be hopelessly romantic
Together.

Indifference

How bad to make another person cry

Worse even still to make a person stop

When welling eyes have spilled and fallen dry

And once inviting doors are carefully locked

A trusting upturned face late full of smiles

A cornacopic heart so freely given

To take and leave in offhand manner vile

Light innocence besmirched until it dims

I watched you hold the babe and coo her name

I watched you come and go as well you pleased

Each time you left, her tears more cautiously came

Until your next return she didn’t need

            Be careful, if you think them always there
            A love eternal can succumb to wear

Hungry

I’m hungry for a new poem

My stomach cramps

Irritating words in that old alphabet soup

Words like want and now and clear

It’s stagnant, I say, and stale

I need a new poem

Something that sits on a different taste bud

Sweet or bitter—doesn’t matter

Shock my system out of that—

Bring it kicking, fresh

Time’s too short for these routine flavors

Repetitive predictable unpalatable patterns

Same notes—they make me tired, I say

I’m hungry for a new poem

And addicted to the old

Claw

I want to stick in your mind’s eye like a claw

Sensation interrupts vision, blurring focus,

The world is a watercolor

Reconstructing into abstractions of me 

Before fading to black

The world’s tastes blend, bland

Everything a dry cracker caulking the throat

Smell my perfume and feel it thicken, saccharine

You big glutton, crave and starve or gorge and fester

Water will not help you

You read a story once

Maybe twice, maybe two thousand times

Its wisdoms swallowed, churned, dissolved

A--T--C--G littered about your mind

Tag, you're it, come get me

I'll rake, you writhe, itch spreading

Fingernails deposit cells, thighs to mouth to heart

For relief, come closer; scratching feels good

Many things feel good back here

With my claws, in you, in the dark