poem of the day 06.01.16

the closer

i tell you

i don’t like him

and he doesn’t like me

we’re two more people in a land of division

who do not get a long

i guess it’s a shame

but he always comes in at the last hour

when my ass is almost kicked

from dealing in eight hours of bitching and complaining

by joe q. public all day

the way he glares at me is priceless

i’ve had women look at me that way

before they’ve told me to go

he wants the financial times

always the financial times

and i’d like to shove it up his ass

then he sits there with it

like a lost financial wizard

his gray tongue licking his yellow fingers

turning the gray pages of the financial times

like he’s bill gates checking his net worth

or that asshole who owns amazon.com

wondering what institution to buy next

as my hours click down on another day

sometimes i watch him as he reads

purposeful like he has all the time in the world

occasionally looking at his watch

to gauge the time

the son-of-a-bitch

he has all day to come in here and act the master of the world

i know it

because i see him on the street sometimes

pacing with coffee or a slice of pizza

berating some chinese lady for getting in his great white way

but he’s one of those kind

someone the world owes something too

our time

our hours

lending our ears for his bullshit

our waning minutes of servitude at his beck and call

the financial times folded neatly and handed to him

once i went into a liquor store at the last minute

for a bottle of vodka

but that was desperation

this…i don’t know what this is

antagonism as street performance?

the outer cosmos of privilege and entitlement?

counting down to the last minute

before he gets up from his rickety throne

and brings the paper back to me

unfolding it sometimes

checking one last article in the financial times

warren buffett in poor man’s clothing

mark zuckerberg in a torn mets hat

running down the last seconds

tossing the paper on my desk

like a used whore

then shuffling hands in pocket whistling a tune

right out of the building

without a thank you

or even a goddamned goodnight.