mmmmdccix

Often Talks with Strangers

     ...but/leave me beside myself
        like a kid next to a lamppost.
                       —John Ashbery

What are you insinuating?
he sniveled. Whatever it is
[full on sobs now] it’s true

it’s true it’s truuuuuue! Poor
Henry, always wearing that
wounded heart on his seer

sucker jacket’s sleeve. Brett 

was always pushing his buttons, 

of which this afternoon’s

brouhaha was the template
example, but Brett also knew
that after such a push (half

off a cliff, as it were) it was
always best to give Henry his
space, and this he also did

well. In fact, he’d supervise
it into a team effort, dispersing
whatever drama-loving crowd

had gathered for the latest epi
sode of As the Office Queen’s
World Turns before Henry’s

snotty sobs broke into more
of a set of hiccup sounds inter
spersed with quick and deep 

inhalations and phlegmy exhal

ations.  Without even so much 

as a there, there. It was one of

the innumerable reasons Henry
adored Brett. The sobbing man 

uncurled himself from the chair 

at the end of the table and

went about dipping his
fingers into jars too high

on the shelves for him to
fully be able to reach safely.
Something was bound to

break. Or else he’d lose his
footing and fall to the floor,
breaking his hip or giving

himself a concussion or
both. But—not this time.
He let out a staccato’d

yelp surely audible to
any dogs or mice in a
three-block radius, and

after a slight pause (for
effect, even though he
was the only human in

the break-room), with
not the slightest sign
that he was in such a

a sobby state only a
couple of minutes
previous, “Found one!”

And with cookie in
hand, he marched
himself back out 

worked his way through

the sea of cubicles to
his desk, put on his

headset, and with 

all of the vocal
authority of an

army general or
a head of state,
let out a Dallas

and Hines Cust
omer Service,
Hal speaking. 

How might I make
your day better
this afternoon?

Often Talks to Himself