Remember the blood
from rusting razors
dripping on cracked porcelain.
Remember the vagina
that spat the placenta
that fed the child, your child.
Remember the feeling
to feel to remember
to remember to feel. Was it real?
The ominous cloud of layoffs finally burst and a downpour of acid rain washed away the debris to reveal a shinier bottomline. With her colleague, friend and lunch buddy gone, The CoHo gobbled up her insipid lunch alone in her cube, hunched over the
computer guillotine waiting for the blade to drop.
The CoHo was summoned for her hearing and she marched in determined to make a McCainously graceul exit. Strangely enough, she was saddled with free-flowing praise with a subtle reminder that since the slave count had been reduced, they expect more from the lucky ones that remained.
It made no sense, those lies. After all, chewing one’s fingernails and twiddling one’s thumbs couldn’t possibly pass off as professional excellence. The numbers were off and any ol’ fool could tell that doom was lurking around the corner. Perhaps she would get to be home with her Nibbles after all.
Red trees in the courtyard shedding their leaves,
Blue sentiments of a nation electing its first black president,
White rings of cow’s milk drying on the mantle top.
While everyone does the chameleon jig, I’ll drag my risk-averse middle class ass to my cube because it’s so much easier whining into my half-empty glass. After all,
The falling leaves warn of harsh winter days.
New leaders need to resusciate a nation long dead.
Nothing can replace the warmth of a nursing child.