I wrote this late last night and I'm not really sure if I like it. I'm willing to consider any revisions that might be suggested. The Patron I Your entrance shoved aside the crowds of silhouettes clustered beyond the sun’s inspection. A chair plays a screaming note on the floorboards, signaling your arrival or intentions. I know what you want before you do. The ruffled shirt, worn tie, and face that only Medusa could adore tell it all. Words will be the order for tonight. You take cautious sips of my courtesy, your words struggling to breach the surface of your lips. II There was no sun at 6:00 this morning; at least I hadn’t noticed it until I reached the first intersection. Where was the night? Ah yes, it was in that crazy dream between shifts, the one where I go home. I run the gauntlet to my office, fending off the Managerial Hydra. As if five heads were not enough. I’m no match however for the bureaucratic Niagara that engulfs me once I arrive. The surface is a sea of triplicates, duplicates, invoices, and memos. I cling to my work station desperately yanking the plug labeled Quick Shred. I wring my mind out, shaking off the ink stains. At last, I slump down in my chair, in perfect camouflage with my cubicle. An army of clients has massed at the electronic border, waiting until I open my email to strike. I evade their attack, choosing to press the phone to my ear, garbling words to sound busy. The drowsy minutes bump into each other, seeming to push the clock back at times. Lunch today will be A-5, because processed food is especially nutritious! My colleagues do good impressions of the Easter Island statues, practically eating through osmosis. At last, the final call is made, the last hydra vanquished. The moon is out tonight, making up for its absent partner. The cloud shattered light drips down, pointing toward this conversation. Thank you for sharing this drink. III There is no last call for sympathy; the lights of humanity are never turned off here. Like that guiding moon, your light was eclipsed. The brutal chains of success bury you. Your dream is indeed that short interval between rat races. But you won’t be asked to do anything here. No, this night is your reward and this drink we shared is on the house.
