after he cuts crusts off his sandwich so careful like his mother used to
toss in the can on top day-old bread yogurt rice and the leak down
well-sourced plastic bags. the bottom’s sour pooling is the accidental
smell of every alley and car he puked in during business school. it all
worked out once he bleached his collar, now someone cleans it for
him the sun shines out his own last name. his chinos and workplace
ergonomic mesh or standing desk all harsh-lit and sterilized by a lady
who looks nothing like his mother, so he doesn’t say her name out
loud and can’t be sure he’s learned it in two years. note the softness of
his hands, how they are gripless. his lapping tongue. note the rising
octave in his throat when his boss says boss things, the dropping
octave on the phone or to the underlings all over-oiled eager. plays
magnate. her name is cheryl, maybe. stuck to rising dropping bottom
line. a very liquid man will always swallow what he’s given.
Kelsey Kerin is a writer from St. Clair, Michigan. Her work can be found in Midwest Review. Right now she makes money teaching at the University of Iowa, where she’s an MFA Candidate in Poetry.