Unemployment Pome

I. Without
 

A story below the silent window

with the “X”s in tape,

each of six panes, an “X” in packing-tape -

shatter-proof -

God, sick,

on full-time bourbon,

toiling alone:

Hoo-rah!

Take That!

Whah!

Rah!

Take This!

Ha!

Bleh!

Ah!

Take That!

The conviction impresses no one.

A child launches an apple as high as she can.

–

Below the clouds are shoulders,

who swear have never been massaged;

Slumping

licking the corners of mouths,

pissing in the corners you'll lean

waiting for trains.

Somewhere lustrous, Subway trudges, dumbly

smoking his last cigarette,

his unfamiliar feet spill

from scarecrow legs.

SPIT.

and the strand won't break.

A bungee about his neck secures him to the grid of clouds

His breath could kill a hamster

or a subway mouse.

–

Seeing that I wore a handsome November

and freshly shaved,

you asked me,

“Can you spare anything?”

And as December lurked,

and as there was no job in the pit

of my stomach, I spit

on you and

traipsed on.

And you ticked forward

despite days upon weeks of tomorrow

clogging the mechanism

sticking the gears

crusting

yesterday's muck

II. Within

Within

the coffee's only warm,

the mug is second-hand – the drinker: handsome,

it's chipped a bit on the lip

and would spoon the tongue nicely

if the breaking bubbles

would stop

sending impulses across its face

like skittering insects.

If,

smartly,

it should shatter,

the mop 'n broom, lazing about the corner,

should hop to life,

and the handsome drinker should be served another.

-JV