Rubber Mallet

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.”

Author: Aidan Badinger

Wharved.com I am a poet. I write poems. Titles and subjects and subsequent readership are all part of one fragmented figment of our universe, and it's nice that we take it so seriously. Hopefully the craft remains and grows stronger for our children.

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