There was a time
we had functional alignment.
I was your individual
contributor, you my associate
director. On Monday
I said Happy Monday,
rolling my rimshot grin.
Ring-fenced
by cool molecules,
like cattle, I battled biosimilars,
sipped local gin;
I tried my luck at affairs
and trade fairs,
optimistic as a fantasy
suite. I inked the deal,
the ink slick
and permanent,
like President
Reagan. I didn’t sleep
unless I felt sick.
Something was always gated
on a fragile something.
Everything
on the critical path.
The whiteboard, cruel
as conceptual math,
scope creep
like a disease.
Some of those days,
our parent showed up,
bespoke shoes bearing Leckerli.
I felt like a starlet
on a cruisy backlot,
an outpost of opportunity.
I took on a new role,
went through the motions
and the typing pool.
But the bonus was no bonus,
any more than the bay.
Like tender, it started to fray.
My admin booked a good
weekend of atrocity. I winced.
I slid the To-Hurt folder below
a molecule’s Package Insert.
Then came the Efficiency
Report, my resignation.
I packed up the brood
for Orlando, a last resort.
I cut off my khaki pants
at the knee, traded in the wife —
this is the Epcot Center of my life!
I want to thank you in advance.
I’d fallen out of favor, like a nation.
