leave it to the professionals

comfort squats on the part time worker,
stealing a rest in the desert
where the prickly pear
blooms bewareness as part and parcel of a wary dumping ground
littered with garden party accoutrements,
swimming pools of undrinkable water
and plastic bottles racing past tumbleneeds
toward the boarder's fence
where squatters hold sway while
trying to do number one or number two while avoiding
contact with an adverse terrain
of colosss husks
and burnt out pintos whose rusty comfort
returns his borrowed iron
into the ground by dropping sweat beads
onto a game floor
ruled by umps in loafers
who decree "play ball or blackball"
who scream "suck it up" while siphoning the gasps
of children fleeing "free tirade"
mad in the USA with boss springing the steens mtn. stallions free
in the movie version, in the disney venison,
getting comfortable with the corn eaters
in the black row of ledgers
running red ink
running out of metaphors for loss
running out of ways to screw with impunity
a stripped out threading where parts, partners,
frank steins brimming with bubbly "hey bub"
as the spokes define a hub
in the radial stretch of making it to the next paycheck
that bounces off the book cooker
and lands not on land but on the backs
of flipped turtles in their empire shells
calling the shots
from way off in lard conditioned eateries
making hypertension the medium whereby one presents any opinion
or addresses the gift of slave labor
to a hole knocked into a saguaro with a tiny sharp beak,
in a residential enclave cul de sac
guarded with goiters from incessant desk loitering
an ugly repose from which to respond
to pretty pleas for basic rites such as washing,
drinking, resting, breathing professional air
with unlicensed noses just out of reach
but easy to smack