Friday, April 12, 2019

Bosses Think They’re Gardeners

All my bosses had bosses
Who had bosses or were
The boss of bosses, and all
My flowers are for the boss

Just up from me, since he
Provides opportunities that
Squeeze my time of its being
Poem-maker, The Boss,

And not without mad dreams
Devious plots to unseat him
As if my only were to evaporate
All day without thinking

About what the boss thinks
Of sailboats and sunshine
From my coworkers and I who
Keep the clocks in the corner

Of our eyes our ears attuned
To the bootsteps synched
To our motions-cum-brand
For what the topmost skims

Buying it up as far from us
As not to suffer himself
Our impossible dreams full
Of the real awakenings

As if to give nature a say
As with colors brightest by day
In the aura of their equations
And sums that fail to include

Where one stands on the ladder
Against what the ladder leans
Who is up and who is down who
Is condemned to turn a frown

Since that is what grows in soil
Cultivated so mercilessly well
Seeking that glow at the top
Rising thin and crooked reaching

Amid others pruned by the boss
Trimmed and trained to shape
What pleases him since he’s
The one doing all the watering is

How he puts it when you push back
Scratch your line in the dirt
Not a goddamned fucking inch
More means nothing to him

So what now what will you do
Uproot walk off into hunger
Rob the local branch jump
Into a volcano

How will you pay the bill
Repair the breach where your line
Crossed you out
Exposed your will at the service

Of the boss’s dirty work
You’re the dirt to be removed
New saplings incubating
To be squeezed of their vitals

A jungle load of new saplings
Younger than you better
Than you will ever be better
You start fixing things

Mending and patching and stitching
Things back together if you
Want a blanket when you sleep
If you want more than onion

No comments:

Post a Comment