~ poem ~
The nonesuch househusband deletes the letter. The company has decided to move forward. The kids choose the cafeteria today. Yes, tomorrow his sandwiches beat corn dogs. After the kids leave, he dresses for a phone call. The dull questions of the bored recruiter flow clabbered and nubby into his ear. They flow like pallbearers, into the sincere letter he will write, after the rejection call, to the recruiter nestled in the forward acre of a jobs cemetery for dogs dead. Yesterday cats run out of lives today. The dishes migrate from meal to rack today. Caught in whorls of hunger, the chipped ebb and flow toss in the foams in dread lights from sun dogs. Dim shadows that desire no darker letter than those scrawled on diplomas which cleave forward through arctic bougie years drone through the caul. The hands on the clock brush no bells, answer no call of alarm. So the trudge of pi today upon the mortal screw rolls his bones forward. Freshly antic prints furrowed with the interflow of piss, tears, blood, spit, sweat, grease, bile. The letter of his quill sees a man about a dog. A random Ouija rattle, the barks of a dog at the sleepwalking neighbor's steps beck and call. Unannounced new jobs promise a red letter day. The hope staves in all other rhymes wrought today because the fleece he seeks is in the workflow. Be he wolf or silver globe, he shares the forward ripple of sound and light that plays him forward like an old record robbed of sly Ozzy's dogs. It will grow there in dirt where no waters flow. Bromeliad, scarlet star, pink quills that call for what he gone be tomorrow, he today types in a resume and cover letter his derrings-do which obsolesce the dog howls in miles, jobless, he dresses in french letter.