What’s With This Anti-Touch Thing With You

By Mark Parsons

A man in his office

asks his wife

as she pushes with overlaid palms

a pretend stake

up to the hilt in his chest.

She gives him a look like he shouldn’t have said that

and leaves.

 

Each appointment

shorter than the one before,

there’s so little time

he thinks

as he crosses legs

and swivels his high wingback chair,

 

with the tip of his brogue

pushes closed a panel desk drawer

sliding shut

heavy and sluggish with folders on

side mounted ball bearings.

 

Sun through metal blinds emerges

sharp and afternoonish.

 

“I guess that wasn’t me

all those years ago,

or yesterday, even.”

 

He corrects invoices

long into that first night.

 

___

Mark Parson’s poems have been published or are forthcoming in Indiana Review, CrossConnect, Curbside Splendor, Smalldoggies, Poetry Quarterly, MAYDAY, Spittoon, Literary Juice, Heavy Feather Review and Dead Flowers.


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