My New Job

It was a long day of matters;
I wouldn’t have lasted the drive home.
Lucky enough, Elsie lived in the city and she was
Nice enough to let me sleep on her sofa.
The couch was glorious and I slept whole heartedly.
I woke up well into the morning
To find my pants around my ankles.
Genitals all still there. And why rape the willing?
But I soon realized that, while I slept,
She had braided my pubic hairs.
When she walked into the living room, I said,
I suppose it’s my fault for letting them grow so long.
She plopped onto the seat next to me,
Like a dog on hind legs, awaiting due
Reward for playing dead, and said,
Yes, I’m sorry, but you are to blame.
You see, your pubes aren’t dissimilar from economics.
Consider big business, corporations:
The kind NPR loves to shit on.
If they grow too big, stretch too far,
They become prominent, and, inevitably, evil.
They become a topic of discussion, criticism
And, ultimately, a target of attack—
Whether through speeches, boycotts, legislation,
Or plain old tomfuckery.
Remember that scene in Fight Club,
With the commercial coffee shop?
Tomfuckery of that sort.
Now, it seems a bit much to blow up your crotch
Or roll a cement boulder through it,
But I feel that the message of the piece still rings clear.
Of course, she was right.
So, being in the city, I found a reputable gallery.
I walked to the front desk, dropped my pants
And requested a plaque summarizing Elsie’s argument.
The man behind the desk called in the curator,
Who, naturally, loved it.
I’ve been on display since.
Six hours a day, five days a week.
Health and dental.
Good work if you can get it.