poem of the day 04.21.14

the garden of gethsemane

i can taste

the first of a few scotches

i think two weeks away from a job

a man can get too used to freedom

but one day back can strip it all away

and leave his dignity hanging by the noose

and then she comes in

she looks like the nun

who taught me all the way back in eighth grade

this old hen who used to torment me

with declarations of hell

because i never bought into the bullshit

never accepted that sad imp jesus

as my one and only savior

so i take an instant dislike to this woman

i don’t appreciate her smile

it has a reverent smugness to it

safe in the knowledge that she’s always right

always stuck talking to assholes like me

and, oh, how i can taste that first scotch

one little, two little, three little scotches

she asks me for help

schedules, tax forms, reading recommendations

for genres that i don’t give a shit about

and there is under five minutes left in this work day

when i look at my watch

she asks me if i have somewhere else to be

i tell her yes, it’s called my life

i tell her the sun has gone down on my benevolence

and now it’s time for the real me to rise again

she says but isn’t the customer always right

not in my tree, i say

and then i go to shut off the lights in the building

so i can spend the night forgetting myself

letting my liver make love to a bottle of clan macgregor

four little, five little, six little scotches

she just stands there

that smile still plastered across the face

like that old nun before she’d tip over my desk

or kick me out of her classroom for a week

i give her one last look and think fuck it

i let my river of alcoholic bliss take me away

as a final salutation this woman calls me lazy

and storms out of the building

then i pop the first switch

i let each light click off slowly

until the whole space is dark and silent

devoid of nearly all flesh but my own

finally holy

after all of the hours that it tangled

with my mortal coil

and made a sacrifice of my soul.