poem:: SOMEWHERE IN THE VALLEY (for Michael to whom I don’t speak anymore but miss nevertheless)

Somewhere in the Valley a young man on the cusp of
middle age is trying to look busy and keep his anxiety at bay about
his boss the John Birch Society member who collects firearms and
promises to murder all homosexuals on sight with his eyes
and this or may not be prohibited by the employee manual
of which he keeps a copy in his bottom left drawer underneath
the antibacterial phonewipes he uses on his telephone and keyboard
first thing every morning to prevent having to use
any more sick days than he already has taken for
the purpose of looking for another job and
sometimes to lay in bed all day staring at the ceiling and
pondering one impossibility after another and anticipating
what he’ll say tomorrow if someone asks him how he’s feeling and
he’ll have to say all right (thankGodforAmoxicillinyouhavetotakethemallyouknowevenifyou’re feelingokayyoustillhavetotakethemall) and then
he’ll have to work furiously (he’s never been a very good liar)
besides being busy helps him sort of not notice the janitor (old bitch queen)
who stops in front of his office at least twice a day and simply smirks
as if to say, well well well what do we have here Miss Thing
just like Paul Lynde on the old Hollywood Squares
and the young man will pretend he doesn’t notice doesn’t care because
he’s busybusybusy for the John Birch Society guy and
moreover this janitor probably doesn’t cross his legs
the way the young man did last Tuesday during
the budget meeting when he had a lapse in judgment and relaxed
which is unlike him - what happened there? Oh well, it happened --
but his boss was on to him anyway and that just confirmed it so
there’s no point in regretting anything, rather
focus on the possibility of being somewhere else where
eventually he’ll do better
but this sort of thing happens to him all the time and it must be because
he doesn’t love / respect / know himself enough
and hasn’t been listening to the self-esteem tapes his therapist gave him
to wean him off the antidepressant he started taking after
his boyfriend left him for someone better looking and richer
and in fact so fucking blessed he threw a javelin at the Gay Games
which his coworkers watched in a conference room so high in the air that
condors nested and raised their young in crevices that the steel girdings
were generous enough to provide as this was Chicago not the Valley
where the young man still hasn’t been murdered, probably won’t be and
his therapist suggests he look for a new job elsewhere
and so the young man will