itch

I sat before the committee
Important stuff is this
my head loaded with correct answers
my foot itched
I wanted to scratch
"why do you want this Job"
the white faced lady asked
I rubbed my heel on the leg of the chair
I gave my answer, correct I think
the itch grew itchier
should I scratch, lean and prod
"What have you got to offer this position"
Said the man with nicotine lips
I adjusted my seating
leaned and scratched
I gave my answer, correct I think
"Would you like a drink of water"
Said the lady with no bra
"I'm fine"
I lied
While scratching my foot
And looking at her tits
I didn't get the job
Well, I didn't want it anyway.



Poetry by JohnJohn
Read 600 times
Written on 2015-12-11 at 22:56

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Bravo! I love it.:)
2015-12-12



Very Bukowskian. I love it. Bravo.
2015-12-12