Househusband Sestina

~ 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.