Unemployed at 50

Drew Pisarra

Force-fuel caffeine sip by pseudo-sip,
then sit under air-conditioned plants
that flap firm thermoplastic leaves
beneath full-spectrum light. Source unknown.
Never was that green. Not once. Not ever.

Sweaty palms translate the resume
from quaint dot matrixed irony
into something suspiciously Cyrillic.
Ink bleeds a thumbprint that won’t commit
while this world can’t help but swirl.

20-somethings whiz by, indifferent.
20-something thoughts inside my head.
Even the wall clock reads 20 after…
But after what? The hour hides.
A second hand sweeps by.

Why be here, here being
perched on a loveseat sofa
made of poromeric leather,
said sofa facing two glass doors
that open onto nothing really.

In time, doors will open. A redhead
straight from the box with nails
laminated jade will beckon
a silent gesture that informs:
It’s time to begin. It’s time to go in.