What tipped me off
was his plastic puppet smile
illuminated by the funeral parlor
fog that always seems to hang
over four suits in a cramped room
with one empty chair.
Then came a spew of syllables
from the designated, flapping mouthpiece
with a gush of bloody feathers
from a dying quail
that made no impressions;
a Q&A that began and ended with
“Our attorneys advise we are not required
to pay you any kind of severance” and
“Aren’t you retiring soon anyway?”
concluding when a greasy, clammy hand
splayed rigid fingers extending
into empty space
like a housefly I swatted
with my self-respect
on the way out the door,
mind churning
like a fully loaded magazine
spraying bullets haphazard
into the void.
At 58,
& in the diminishing light
of horizon,
it is at times with deep personal regret
that revenge is a poison
I can serve only
lukewarm
and in silence.
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