Viewport width =
March 5, 2018 | by  | in Arts Poetry |
Share on FacebookShare on Google+Pin on PinterestTweet about this on Twitter

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.

Share on FacebookShare on Google+Pin on PinterestTweet about this on Twitter

About the Author ()

Add Comment

You must be logged in to post a comment.

Recent posts

  1. Issue 21, Vol 81: Looking Back
  2. Foraging Video Recipes
  3. 5 TV Shows that *Might* Fool Others into Thinking You’re a History Wunderkid
  4. Books With Protagonists Our Age (That Don’t Suck)
  5. Changing Tides
  6. In Defense of the Shitty Sci-Fi Sequel
  7. Avantdale Bowling Club
  8. Medium Playback
  9. The International Angle
  10. The Poo Review
Website-Cover-Photo7

Editor's Pick

This Ain’t a Scene it’s a Goddamned Arm Wrestle

: Interior – Industrial Soviet Beerhall – Night It was late November and cold as hell when I stumbled into the Zhiguli Beer Hall. I was in Moscow, about to take the trans-Mongolian rail line to Beijing, and after finding someone in my hostel who could speak English, had decided