You’re unsure
of what brought you
here as you stand
right next to the
secretary of a
highfalutin executive-type,
deftly denting
the coffeemaker
with a rubber mallet,
unwittingly uncovering
the rattling inner-workings
of that percolator’s psyche,
cracks and creaks
that were never meant
to come across
this superior’s oaken desk,
unsettling his thoughts
while a way to compete
with eastern markets
must be devised
before midnight tomorrow
or these investors
will be pissed.
“Mr. Gamble is trying
to have some peace
and quiet, sir.
I suggest taking
your rubber mallet
elsewhere for now.”
“Oh, this mallet
isn’t mine. I found it
on the floor
when I got here.”
“I thought it looked
familiar. I lost mine
an hour ago, thought
it ran away from me.”
WHARVED 