“How’s it going?” the first boss asks, as if
he didn’t know the company’s budget
and inventory; thinks it’s your motif
of life. You want to tell him (but fudge it),
“It’s all downhill, like your hairline, you [bleep].”
Then jerk his gum from his gums, jam it up
his nose, hurtle him down that staircase steep.
“You’ve lost weight,” second boss chimes, like a slup
in a bad Subway spot, blind to his blurb
connoting, “Hey, you’re not as fat as last
month!” “Boss man,” your mind growls, “would it disturb
you to know your savoir faire’s like a fast
fart?” Maybe one day he will discover
beauty’s deeper than magazine covers.
Roger Armbrust
October 22, 2007
