Here’s another draft for today, Sunday 05.05.19.
I guess I no longer write for him
my boss, who doesn’t email me
and I suppose a letter would be too slow
so the bad news comes via telegram.
It’s as if Wells Fargo has risen from the dead
the star of the telegraph then teletype stage
having long set, sunk in the computer age.
That man must want me to touch my rejection
feel it, concrete, between my fingers
blow my nose with it as I wipe away my tears
or some no way it’s going to happen crap like that.
Driven down into a dark place by this good news
I meander to the shore, come to the edge
take a deep breath, then heave my gold Cross pen
out into the lake, the company’s gift given to me
for all my years of service, the symbol of thanks
for my undying devotion to their quest for —
and holy shit
I kid you not
a hand reaches up from the water
grabs the pen
then disappears . . .
Hey, who knows, huh?
Maybe I’ll be back.