Llyn Clague

Song of Private Property

Private property~keep out!
You may not walk the beach by the sea
it’s mine
You may not picnic on the golden pine needles
they’re mine
You may not take shelter here from the gnawing
    cold
that’s mine

Private property~keep out!
Work on the machines but what you make
is mine
Build the high-rise but its apartments
are mine
Ride in the airplane but remember
it’s mine

Private property~keep out!
Do what you like, it’s not concern of mine~just
    keep out!
You’re a free man, go anywhere you like~but 
    keep out!
Think what you like, I couldn’t care less~just
    keep out!
it’s mine
it’s mine
it’s mine

My Turn

I was summoned, not to a conference roonm,
but to my boss’s office
and~like you know
before the doctor’s lips part~–
I knew.

He stood up, as nice
as if I were a new hire,
and offered me a chair.

The walls didn’t move.
The ceiling, anonymous
off-white, stayed put.
The floor remained flat
as the bottom line.

The Letter lay on his desk
like a puddle of pus.

Eliminated . . . ?
My job –
the hours, sweat, heart,
even love I put into it~
mere waste
passed through the corporate anus
without a trace
of odor, not an ounce
of animus?

My career~for the rest
of its tiny eternity~
downhill from here?
No more the big bucks,
windows, titles, perks?
Months, maybe years,
sucking up to headhunters,
grinning at young squirts
with hire power
and walking away empty?

Me scared?
Scream my lungs out,
throw a fit,
beg for mercy?
Not a chance.
I’m strong. I can take it
like a man. I’m a big boy. Look –
my hands are as steady
as the hands of a cadaver.

Oh, of course, boss.
You don’t have to tell me.
I know. It’s nothing
personal. The organization
needs to change . . .  you still
like me,
as a person.

Jesus. Let me out of here.
Give me a drink
or two or three.
I’ll be fine.
I’m strong. I’m a big boy.

____

Llyn Clague lives and works in Hastings-on-Hudson, New York. For five years he was co-–managing editor of Inprint.