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March 5, 2018 | by  | in Arts Poetry |
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Lion’s Teeth

Nobody has ever said

I would like to grow up

to one day be a bureaucrat.

 

Or a sinecure; listless

at a desk in the afternoon

staring at immigrant landscapers

 

from an office window

like they are flowers

in a garden, wet with sweat

 

from guarding the marigolds

against imperialist insects,

moving across the tableau,

 

the manicured lawns of America

like checkers on a board

only ever vaguely aware

 

there’s a sycophant who sits

and watches them pull at weeds

while he himself feels stuck

 

like a staple in a stack

of papers—sifting through time

sheets and blank accounts

 

receivables, waiting for someone

to come and pluck him out

of his hole like a dandelion

 

and help him remember when,

wiping his brow against the sun

and waiting on a gust of wind

 

he would hold the stem,

and watch each seed

blowing slowly away

 

one by one,

until he was left

with nothing.

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