American Yarnprose>Seems Like Zenville Road AKA Don't Panic On Texas Baby, We Can Do That

Seems Like Zenville Road AKA Don’t Panic On Texas Baby, We Can Do That.”

I must have those big bathroom baby greens about me, twinkling in my eyes, for when the boss asks me about the spilled water on the black and white-tiled floor, I tell him about an out-of-order sign that was taped on the door one week ago and he mumbles something about flushing up above and I tell him I’m not the plumber who mucked up the whole works and walks out the door with an empty-handed and perverse look and I take a leak, unzip my pants, think of a little song to while away the fluid flying into the bowl, God bless America, oh mah soul!

I zip up; wash my hands with the fancy perfumed soap. I walk out and get my tea at the company kitchen sink and there’s a conversation between two people abut abscesses and wisdom teeth and they’re so serious and just then a man waves hello, he’s my good old buddy who caught me from falling when I felt low and he turns his head and goes back to work and I nearly burn myself on hot water when I twist around with a sudden jerk and I bounce right up the stairs and people walk past me with smelly perfume that covers their insecurity ‘til half past three and back at my desk, caged in my headset and my paper and my pen, I listen to the fellows who laugh and sing and blab like there’s no end and another fellow joins them as if he has nothing else to do and when I complained about this talking long long ago, all the boss could say was crunch-crunch-crunch those numbers and don’t let it bother you and so they go on gabbing carte blanche, condoned by the boss and my first instinct is to say it’s no big loss and I know in my heart and I know in my soul that a good name is important to keep to yourself alone and outstanding from the rest and as I peck-scribble, peck-scribble my notes like this, another boss is yelling at her staff to always be the best and it never really matters and no one really cares, except for those who have a half-conscious and look directly into a mirror and know the ins and outs of treatment, both routine and semi-altered and the world keeps on spinning and the rats will surely drown in the mire they’ve created, guilty pleasure-bound and I only know what I see and what I feel and what I hear, so don’t be surprised if I change my mind next year, for a soul evolves and disappears as quickly as it comes and the laughter that filled the air will then be secreted with mud, for wisdom is knowledge, a needle thru a thread and the pattern will be broken and the fence will self-mend as long as the neighbors cut and trim the grass and the losers watch the winners choke and sputter their way through the gutter and slip-slide like butter on burnt toast workhouse rainy days.