1. The First Day
Cubette manacled, beslacked
and boringbuttoned to the neck,
flogging freeways towards debtless hope –
I’ll be cubed like cheap ham at a salad bar,
smiling behind circuited gallows,
noose in a half Windsor,
not without doldrumming dress heels
typing into sterile carpentry.
Hairsprayed stare to spread bullshit like butter,
one foot on the bottom rung,
the other in quicksand security,
I folded like a clothrusted hide-a-bed
forgotten under days
2. Co-workers
Poloshirted, hunching
future quasimodos, pocket change tolling
in vending machine spires,
window-staring champions
tanning fluorescent, clockwatching
heartbeat swimming in coffee regimen,
keyboard galloping in protocol to ratatat ringtones –
the break room oasis warmed by
that sweet droning, the choral hum
of iridescent glucose
3. Medication
and I dream of weekends like I dreamt
of middle school crushes in math class –
blessed by hallowed Friday night,
whiskey caress reaches till Sunday,
inviting Mondaybound hangovers, with
docile lights roaring between the calm
slaps of lukewarm caffeine and the
respiratory embrace of nicotine;
I take my fifteen to paint porcelain
the colour of one-too-many and remember
I am 2,080 hours richer
than a life I might actually enjoy.
Michael Harper fled to Oregon right after getting a degree in English & Comparative Literature from one of those biggish schools in Southern California. His work has been featured in Dash Literary Journal, Hibbleton Independent, Lexicon Polaroid, New Verse News, Origami Condom, and Verdad. He now lives beneath your couch, hoping you won’t look under there too often. You can find more of him or ignore him at openmikeharper.com
