Westwind

How I Find Time to Write

Kyle Moreno

Today I steal it from my employer

who writes me up or maybe

fires me when he catches me writing

this poem on his time. I don’t

pay you for this, he says, holding it

up to my face, slapping it once

hard with the back of his hand for

emphasis, like a perfect rhyme.

I wince because I don’t like

perfect rhymes in my poems, and I parry

with this line about  apocalyptic eschatology

which throws him off completely.

So now we’re arm wrestling on his desk,

pushing and squeezing and perspiring when

his secretary knocks on the doorjamb

and we both look up. She has

the loveliest breasts of all the secretaries.

She announces matter-of-factly that henceforth

she will be my secretary not his secretary

and that’s when I slam his arm down on his desk

which is my desk now with my poem on it

and my sweat and his blood and her breasts

in it and all the time in the world for it.

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