Chris Skiles
IT was a pipingly hot,
Yet rainy day. The intern
Looking down sheepishly, first
At his watch, then the editor’s clock
Began to think of his wife
And newfound baby,
Born ona day, not quite
So rainy. The intern looked at the editor
In slick, merino slacks
And a white silk shirt.
The day had been a long one,
And, the intern, worried about proving
His worth, had sent a text as a curse
To his wife, with the baby, now nearing five,
The baby’s mouth none the less gaping wide.
“Well,” the editor said. He was smoking a pipe
He had gotten long ago
No doubt, from an
Offshore, exotic foreign coast.
The intern, looking at his coat on
The far room wall
Thought of a way to
Stall, his impending doom.
Not the worst worker, you ever met
Yet I say to this day with
Some regret,
Not the best.
“All the people who laugh hysterically;
Who do not agree.”
“Oh, I see,” the intern said. He was beginning to wish
He was dead. In response, he said, “How come
There are all the buzzards here. What is dead
For so many to appear?
There’s not that much life loss
Around here. Or is it?”
“I don’t know,” the editor said, perplexed.
“I wish I knew. Say, throw that paper over here.”
“This here?” the intern said. He chucked it
Missing the bed
Of papers stacked, taking up half the rack
Of the editor’s shelf.
“A review,” he said.
“Of something long dead, of something once led
Out by the demons of Hell.”
“Will it sell?” the intern said.
“It was written by a student
Not so prudent.
Time will tell.”
A long silence
Ensued the editor and intern.
The editor was smoking his pipe
The smoke making an entrail
Leading up to the ceiling fan,
Surrounding the desk.
The intern, trying to look smart, trying
To play his part, looked
Up, at the shelf.
“There’s nothing this man can’t do
My worth must be proved,”
He half muttered, half
Thought to himself.
“What?” the editor said,
Ejaculated, raising up
In a sudden movement
Of his easy chair
His back in slight disrepair,
Choking on some tobacco.
“Nothing,” the intern said, looking up.
“Just talking to myself.”
“Uhummm…” the editor said. He continued
In his concentrated, yet easy trance
Leaning back in his chair;
“He must give me a chance,”
The intern
Thought to himself, more silently now.
He wondered if he should do something, but
“How…?” The editor once again starting up
Ejaculated, putting his tobacco stub,
Loading it once again.
“This paper states,” he said, clearing hs throat
“It is not a sin
To be gay. Well, I’d say
It’s not a sin to be straight, either.”
Looking at the intern, he took a breath
From the pipe smoke he had apparently been choking on
While the intern, suddenly looking up
Knew he had been asked upon.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Instead of picking
Up, his
Thoughts began to slow.
“Huhummm…” the editor said, setting down his pipe.
“Time will show…”
“Excuse me,” the intern said.
All thoughts of excuse or reason
Had fled
His tiny mind.
He knew his ass was on the grind.
The editor looked up, then down at his watch and fob—
It was after five.
“If there’s something I can do
Or to you to prove
I’d love to do it,
Even to give my own life.”
“Well, it’s after five,” the editor said.
The intern looked up, and wished no longer
He was dead.
The editor, smoking once again, his eyes
A puffy red,
Said,
“Well, you can push the envelope for me,
Get here tomorrow no later than three,
Then we will see
If you can prove your worth to me
On a drowsy day,
Or an electric night
In you, I think,
I can find some delight.
Some light, at the end of my day
Before I take my drawers off
And kneel down to pray.”
“Yes,” he said, the smoke from his pipe clearing.
“I think you can stay.”
The intern was relieved
And none the less pleased
But none the less an employee.
“Employed to what?” he said to himself.
He was not quite sure how
He could sell his soul
To the devil;
All the wife’s wants
And his troubles.
He looked up at the top shelves.
“There’s nothing this man can’t do.”
He said to himself.
And that’s all the story
The editor had to say.