Branch Manager

the acorns
split
under foot,
under black patent
leather shoes

his top half
draped immaculately
(white dinner jacket)

did I mention
the drape was immaculately
conceived in the din
of some
smudged matte turquoise tailor's
nook/backroom

he gazed into the natural weave
of the moonlit branch
manager

he fancied it was some haint
from the bottom of a well
that was lost

in the Word
only to be pusht into the
maw
of the Earth.

The sun was off somewhere
illuminating a Coptic
courtyard
where a soccer ball
undid itself and flowered its
pentagonal cells onto the ground.

he came closer to the branch manager
and saw that there were several
tears
scrawled on her cheek
in Indian ink
and in the tears, little people
like early renderings of sperm

a supermoon was happening
right above the branch manager
and him

the dark brown hand
brushed his shawl collar
and he stood silent
with his mind on his fiance

"you look nice; you ready?"

"ready as I'll ever be"

he had many helpings of leftover steak
touched by the lips of the patrons
he served

his cab license fell behind his study door
and has gathered dust
for thirty years

never again will he shut himself
into
that study
where
he snapped and stayed

out of trouble forever, mom
into his books, mom
on to the great debate, mom

"I only do this on weekends (coordinate)."

the doors
were flung open

and someone in the back of the place
hung her head
and cried