by Paul Handley

When you say the screw top
Red is sacred, having been
Consecrated by you in private,
I hear communism is dead.
When you remove a chair from my
Unoccupied table, save me, sans
Asking, I feel akin to a sacred violation
Of my coffee break.
When you shake my hand
While clasping my shoulder with
Your other claw, I want to roll
Your fingers with my manly paw
To hear the sound of dry twigs
Catching fire.
When you envelope yourself in
Arms of a self-hug, I want to pat
Your head without the inherent
Patron of inferiority clouding us.

Paul Handley spent a career as a student and a student of odd jobs. He has an MA, an MPA, and is ABD. He has driven a cab and sold meat door-to-door. Paul has work included or forthcoming in Apollo’s Lyre, Boston Literary Magazine, Ophelia Street, Poesia, and others.