A daily poem #354 – March 21, 2011
by Sandra Beasley
For six months I dealt Baccarat in a casino.
For six months I played Brahms in a mall.
For six months I arranged museum dioramas;
my hands were too small for the Paleolithic
and when they reassigned me to lichens, I quit.
I type ninety-one words per minute, all of them Help.
Yes, I speak Dewey Decimal.
I speak Russian, Latin, a smattering of Tlingit.
I can balance seven dinner plates on my arm.
All I want to do is sit on a veranda
while a hard rain falls around me.
I’ll file your 1099s.
I’ll make love to strangers of your choice.
I’ll do whatever you want,
as long as I can do it on that veranda.
If it calls you, it’s your calling, right?
Once I asked a broker what he loved about his job,
and he said Making a killing.
Once I asked a serial killer what made him get up in the morning,
and he said The people.