Tom the Traveler
He wakes up to drive to his 9 to 5-
feels alive and ready for another day in the hive.
Breakfast slips out of its absurdist packaging while
coffee, bitter and browner, slides
down his throat. He needs to fix his smile.
Fixing with his brush
Each tooth needing
a separate pearly appearance. Beauty never was easy to create in a rush.
He g l i d e s away
from his house to his brand new Hyundai.
A fine machine-
lawn is green. The neighbor’s is greener.
What is it they always rumor?
Something like-
“The grass is always greener at the neighbor’s.”
He can’t quite REMEMBER.
He heard it on the TV though while riding his elliptical.
The house draws away as backs out of his driveway.
Cost him a soul. He feels it was worth it though.
NPR squeaks from a faraway place,
as he wonders what worth is.
It isn’t something he can touch or face-
like a bird he once saw near Hope Lake.
White. Red. Black. Life eras- What was that
about the president saying his wife was fake!?
Steve would be mad.
He was always mad. Very proud.
Then again he was- no. Censorship in the head.
He reached his cubicle-
Eagle-spread papers forming a mangled bed.
He wishes he could sleep… sleep… sleep…
He s
i
n
k
s
into his chair and the desk.
Walls recede,
the dreams reseed,
but the strings attempt to impede.
S
I
N
K still.
I
N
G
Tom wakes up-
Moaning, groaning, and now dreaming-
to see Hope Lake.
Water glimmering
from the light of the noon sun.
As ravens scream out.
The ravens continue-
beaks open wide to the sky
until they see Tom.
The ravens move as
one giant, deadly, black mass-
Oblivion comes.
Tom wakes up-
Flailing, flopping, and still dreaming-
to see his lawn.
Emerald green blades push
up to the sky from brown
earth. A beautiful painting bordered by a bush.
But to the east is a wasted bridal gown-
strewn across the lawn like a beaten swan.
A wind blows and the gown dissipates without a sound.
The lawn calls to Tom, and so is Tom drawn.
Each blade of grass begs to be cut-
Tom reaches into his pocket to find scissors he depends on.
The first cut brings screams, but
Tom has already asphyxiated. Somewhat.
Tom wakes up-
Gasping, rasping, and still dreaming-
in a confession booth.
A wall divides Tom
from a faceless shadow built
By traditions old.
The shadow holds a woven
basket brimming with money.
Tom feels his neck to
check for a noose, but instead
finds his work tie tied
slightly too tight around his
thick neck. Sound issues from the
Shadow as it asks
what sins Tom as committed.
Tom tries something new.
He thinks… thinks… thinks and out comes,
“I’ve wasted my life.” Gunshot.
Tom wakes up-
Clutching, gushing, and no longer dreaming-
to see his insignificant cubicle.
He stands up ready to shout and leave. Defection is hard in a machine.