enjoying twenty minutes outdoor time
I’m allotted every twelve hour factory shift
I amuse myself by flicking away
ants scouting for morsels of food
to carry back to their queen
about the time I dispatch the last drone
Randy the programmer steps outside
lights a cigarette and says
"hey, Karl, I was just cleaning
my desk and I found your book,
the one you gave Sarah, she let me read."
"oh yeah?" I vaguely remember
Sarah buying my first poetry chapbook
several years ago, one of the few
I managed to sell of that batch
"it’s the one you signed
‘To Sarah, with all my love’"
Randy stands there, hands on hips,
cigarette nestled beneath that
god awful Tom Selleck mustache
Sarah finds so adorable
he knows he’s been fucking Sarah
a lot longer than
she hasn’t been fucking me
"well, Randy I was gonna write
‘To Sarah, thanks for all the blow jobs’
but it didn’t feel quite appropriate
for a chapbook dedication, you know,
but go ahead and keep it
she paid for it"
"no, I ain’t got no need for it
fucking poems don’t even rhyme, anyway"