Work (2006)

“rest awhile work
is imaginary”
– Michael Farrell, from my skeleton


The poet (Michael Farrell?) is overheard
on his mobile
on the train
on the way to work:

“re: carrying bones / keeping score
(to be down with what the gulls want)
I can only tell you what I don't know;

I don’t want what someone else
has worked for & thought about, & spare me
those whirlwind biddings done by jinnees.

Though I will
filch some hot young language
if you have any.”

He closes the call with a ciao,
snaps the clam-phone shut but
keeps talking anyway,
slips into best voiceover voice:

“Forgive these anonymous, these
fresh white collars

heavybreath suit thick with
Old Spice, gripping
a leather handle

& the morning girl
dressed as a fashion
store with her still-wet hair.”

Having bought our attention, the poet
blows us off to the office with a parable:

“A man crawls out of an argument
with his wife (the most stolen car in the city),
begins masturbating over a fire,
teaching art &
the remnants of what beauty did
in its prime.

He pulls a fair crowd, but sure enough
once talk turns to grace & forgiveness
they lose interest & disperse.
Despondent, he hits the bottle like a demon,
quits the bank job, never works again.”