Published August 31, 2021
by Bruce A. Heap
(Niskayuna, New York, USA)
Nervous about my interview
only now do I notice that my nowhere-to-put hands
are salty, skinless, and shallow, looking up at me,
smirking, "I told you it was a waste of time."
My finger bones are peppering into powder,
not quietly, but with an explosive sound.
I am certain, any second, the curious secretary
will egret, long faced around the corner.
I try to calm myself on palm trees swaying in the wind
and I think of my husband blown into billions of bits in Bagdad.
He had to be scraped off the ground,
but I was relieved because he was abusive.
My palms are sweaty, my hands mostly mock me.
I attempt some control over my cognitive confusion.
I really need this job I quietly mention to myself.
The egret pops its head in,
"Mr. Harland?
Mr. Harris will see you now."
Biography
Bruce A. Heap is a poet and writer who grew up on Long Island and now lives in upstate New York. He has been published in such literary journals as Bitchin' Kitsch, Old Man Magazine, and Adelaide Literary Magazine. In addition to his poetry and short stories, Bruce quietly self studies mathematics, physics, chess, poetry, Shakespeare, yoga, and French. He loves old movies and is always a sucker for a good western.
Previously published in Eleventh Transmission:
"What Say the Trees of Compiègne?" by Sylvia Anne Telfer
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