By Ryan Quinn Flanagan

 

The mail comes

and I stand up tall

beat my bare chest like

a silverback gorilla

 

tearing paper towels

from the rack

 

dismembering the television

down to its various

parts

 

the job interview was not a success

I told them some things I should

not have

 

and now

there are letters outside,

likely a bill or two;

everyone wanting money

 

in my snazzy fox boxers

running my fingers down the

window screen

 

as though

one of us is really getting

somewhere.

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