Evan Myquest

Sunday, November 17, 2013

from the high desk

the clerk

high wooden pigeon hole desk
black suited Uriah hunching over his task
a radio talking politics at his elbow
Uriah sorting words
pulling back on the chaos lever
organizing thoughts
collecting runaways from the traps
herding tangents back to the linear
wondering if the clock would ever move
starting the morning with slow thinking
until coffee steaming
picking up his pace
through the hours
until lunchtime extravagance
with chicago hotdogs with the works and fries
a lethargic couple hours later
Uriah finding the pace again
and words flowing again to sort bins
of his own manic devise
he could not keep up with the clock
before he realized--
it was quitting time
time to walk away
saying goodnight with a survey glance around
turning off the lights
facing the traffic
needing his ever present umbrella

with Uriah gone

the words deconstructed
into chaotic random states
a beauty of another kind
as the brake on the chaos lever smoked

at the nine o’clock tick
a key in the lock
hanging up his manteau noir
shaking his head
Uriah takes to his high seat
turns on his radio

first impressions
met happy hiram on the couch
and could tell by his ears
he was intelligent
met this babushka
at the ticket line
and could tell by her fingernails
she liked me

met the curator
of the marquez exhibit
and could tell by his eyeglass frames
there was no way on earth
we could be friends

 met don giusepp’
behind the sushi palace
and could tell by his brows
god occasionally made duplicates

met sister sagittarius
on the ship to belize
and could tell by her molars
her faith was not genuine

met old ray again
during my conversation with the squirrels
and could tell by the part in his hair
we have a checker game in our future

met filthy penny once
and only once
and could tell by her ankles
she knew the lives of all the saints

met the gentleman with the lizard
poking from his mouth
and could tell by his retinal patterns
he fished saltwater exclusively

met the third chair french horn player
and could tell by her blank stare
she canned pickles

met the thurber reader

under the shadetree
and could tell by her knuckles
she was unable to remember the alamo

best we all are given the same shoes
or there would be no deep secrets here