Whisps of gray poison slink
proudly, quietly around the gray
cubicles, melting marble chords of
self-esteem, directing my crouching
character until like the innocent
charcoal translucent in the waves
of masterful ocean, I am
slammed against the fearless,
tarnished pavement of the walls
of an empty closet and the boss
shreds me, rolls the wads of me down
a chute to a table full of emotional
indigestion, across from an old, rotted,
scrunchy man, mean man, impolite, mouth
sealed as he is served by hippies, and I
think it’s okay, no bitterness, he’ll die very
soon, and wilting, I know it is true
for all of us.
stillfugue 
#1 by Kay Camden on February 25, 2014 - 9:47 pm
I read this a few times. As you know, I’m not fit to comment much on poetry but I’ll just say these phrases I love:
crouching character
emotional indigestion
And the end. You always know how to get that punch in.
#2 by Carl on March 9, 2014 - 10:24 am
Kay, I’m so lucky to have you read and you’re as fit as anyone! Thank you for your comment.
#3 by clinock on February 26, 2014 - 12:40 am
Day job…been there in front of that man…still stick pins in his image…he is “wilting” I know he is, like a forgotten cabbage at the back of the fridge. Powerful as ever, your words Carl, inspiring me dumb-struck…
#4 by Carl on March 9, 2014 - 10:26 am
Your comment is powerful for me. Thank you for reading and thank you for the comment.