Subject: From the Desk of Fred Brown
The lots declared that he was guilty.
A pity. Zealots always execute
their duty faithfully. Let’s be clear:
in no way does this reflect badly on the company.
But let’s be clearer: the long term effects
are all but unknown. Whatever that was
that fell by the window, it was no
Man. Memo: what we know is that the fall
was self-inflicted. The illustrious Mr. Francisco
plunged to his death late Thursday afternoon
the paper read, but we knew that was a lie.
A pity the board will never see these results.
Let’s be the bearer of good news, for once.
For the nonce, I’ve constructed a bomb-shelter
in my wet-bar, across from my desk.
Those pesky bureau agents want to rifle through every subject
line I ever wrote, never mind the blind cc’s.
Memo: it’s all tumbling down around us.
In the furor over our confusion at our own actions,
I escaped. I am no longer at my post.
Subject: Donations for Widows & Orphans!
So much depends upon vocation. Kudos
for finding yours, Fred Brown. If the endorphins
haven’t kicked in by the time you get down
to business, they never will. You’ve tried morphine,
you swear. Let’s get to the libations, then, & ditto
for the salutations. It’s not what your detractors
had foreseen, but they’ll take it standing in a line.
I suspect you’ve never addicted yourself to anything
you couldn’t kick, but look, Fred, your cat climbs
the pile of boxes against the window & opens
her little mouth. Tell me you’ll never talk to strangers,
especially ones with gifts. We’ll favor gentility
& noblesse over utility every time. We’ll never take
a vacation from our obligations, Fred Brown;
the widows & orphans will be thankful for that, I think.
Subject: Is Debt Your Roman Empire?
They forged ahead, into horror, &
you let them. The walls, far behind,
were a crumbled cake of feldspar
& granite. Be gorgeous, you exhorted,
wanting beauty above all things.
The thistles & bramble took their toll
in sweat. What poor omens swept
our legions up like a fervor? Rivers
swollen with sturgeon & trout could not
sustain them & so they marched on,
into countries they owed no fealty to.
A sweltering field below a hill, young
trees stretching out their limbs. Be
nurturing, against your better judgment,
& show interest in a fallen world,
you urged. They listened, that once, then turned
their backs on Rome & all its calculi. I swear,
they’ll camp there by the stony shore,
their eyes on their boots, not us. Should we build
a gate? We wait, we wait, but for what?
Subject: If Only He Could, When He Should
he would, but he’s caught
between a case of death, comma,
fear of, & the longer period
of fear of life. He shuts his eyes against it;
he spooks so easily. Not so much as a peep
from those of us on bereavement leave
will make it through his skin.
Which keeps him in. It creeps at any mention
of next-of-kin. He’d love to make noise
lovingly, but he knows he’d be heard
& his voice is off, his rhythms’s off. Omission
is his favorite sin, which explains why no one
knows him. Every act is so easily deferred,
it’s like water rising in a pool: it just spills over
when it’s full. No one can tell
if he is wise, or a fool, but every move
he makes creates its own desuetude.
Samuel Day Wharton makes wine & writes poems in Sacramento, CA. Recent work has appeared (or will appear) in Stone Circle Review, the engine(idling, Does It Have Pockets, The Shore, Some Words, & Poetry Is Currency. You can find him on Bluesky here: @fakeourway.bsky.social. His favorite revenge story has got to be The Princess Bride. Both the book & movie are classic. Author photo is sketch by Esteban Villa.
