On A Park Bench
Didn’t the asphalt on Tremont Street begin
as something panting and organic? Even
the fountain, drained for winter, is ready
for a subsequent career as a pigeon’s picking ground
of popcorn, my shredded resume, hope.
In college I mopped classrooms.
After that I marketed seeds (heirloom tomatoes),
wore a white paper hat to manage a failing
Dairy Queen, sold silicone chips—the best
megahertz to ramp the dance of diodes.
Part-time Customer Service Rep. C++
Programmer. Trade Magazine Editor.
Market Research Director. VP, Strategy
and Analytics. Before the Big Bang
revamped the universe, the sun was
random gasses. Now it’s working
overtime, colliding isotopes of hydrogen,
while I sit on a bench (a recycled plastic bench)
made from soda bottles that changed their job.
Everything used to work as something else.