Working For…

“Show initiative”
you ballyhoo,
like a rapist politician
howling patriotism.

“We do not carry passengers”
you accuse.
Good—
when do you resign?

I see you,
sitting back,
smug,
porridge–eyed,

and you’ll never admit
that the rocket you sought
said “Brockwell’s”
not “NASA”.

So now it goes up,
a lone flame,
a dark night.
That’s orbit?

And when it crashes
on the bottom line,
will it be the cleaner’s fault
for washing out the tea–leaves?

Will it be the receptionist
for picking up the banker’s call?
But, no, not you—
never in a million egos.

poem

88-89

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