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Caesura

Job sat in a corner of the dump eating asparagus
With one hand and scratching his unsightly eruptions
With the other. Pshaw, it’d blow over. In the office
They’d like discussing it. His thoughts

Were with the office now: how protected it was,
Though still a place to work. Sit up straight, the
Monitor inside said. It worked for a second
But didn’t improve the posture of his days, taken

As a cross-section of the times. Correction of our time.
And it was (it was again): “Have you made your list up?
I have one ambulance three nuns two (black-
And-white list) cops dressed as Keystone Cops lists, a red light

At leafy intersection list.” Then it goes blank, pulp-color.
Until at the end where they give out the list
Of awardees. The darkness and the light have returned. It was still
The weather of the soul, vandalized, out-at-elbow. A blight. Spared,
though.

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