I’ll Have the Body Sandwich, and Hold the “Me,” Please
The story of my life, as they say. Being that fleshy lump
held between cold steel and granite, blue flame and skillet,
or that subject of inexpert experimentation in a sterile
bedroom funded by military contractors or accounting miracles,
I am no longer startled by my irrelevance to the economy.
I can assemble IKEA furniture, manipulate words, slice
salami, calculate volume in terms of books, chain saw
trees, fabricate shelving, repair PVC, curse in three languages,
prepare quiche from scratch and compose poetry (sometimes
simultaneously), to mention just a few skills, and all with great
humility, and, alas, no pay. In a previous life, I administered,
tended budgets, said “no.” Now, I want to say “yes,” but no one
will listen. My in-box is littered with ads for portable
oxygen, leaf guards for gutters, herpes remedies and geriatric
dating services, with a few funeral home missives and phishing
expeditions thrown in. I’ve been sized and assigned to a particular
box targeting a certain demographic which I may or may not
belong to. The story of my life, as they say. Whoever they are.
* * *
Many thanks to Ron Throop for providing the title. If you’d like to join in on the fun, see my September 5 post for sponsorship details. Give me a title, provide some words. Or think of another challenge! It’s all for a good cause: Brick Street Poetry, Inc.
Tomorrow’s poem is titled “His Hand in Her Hand,” and was sponsored by poet Ivor Steven, whose book Tullawalla is out in the world!