jobhunter bicyclist rides the lightspeed track
to his finish-line meeting, texting semaphores of hope
with apples and blueberrys,
jumping potholes, dodging drivers,
deftly scoping morning rushhour mentors.
bluegold spandex suit stretches on sinew, bone and absent gristle
like a weight-room poser before the tour de france.
could he break away from an interview as easily as his hounding pack,
knowing the difference in risk of losing a job or losing the race;
losing the vaunted jersey to unemployment and someone else’s sweat?
i still wear my yellow silks and keep my backward connections:
a waterfall of letters with endorsements from my top desk drawer,
envelopes and cancelled stamps,
paper meeting agendas crashing down to the foaming rocks of
boredom and scribbled in pencil.
i’m wireless, too! certified papers that document my day.
away! away! from cell tower conversations
whose tasteless,
invisible microwaves spread,
attenuating out to the small talk of space.
i always imagined a tour de france cyclist late for a meeting or job interview and the sweat and tension this situation presents.
