End of Game Notes

Among volumes of notes
pages that creep up on me from work
in those unwanted piles
of detritus
scattered into the corners of my pockets,
are important stuffs that I need to
read, dig into, figure out,
always later.

Deciphering notes is something
I do in the in the screaming light of day
after writing them
in the dark of the night
what’s important then isn’t important
now.

Usually.

The bottom line of importance is
breathing
then paying the bills and going to work
does this mean I must sign up
to work the Super Bowl
when I would rather stay home in bed
and read Ginsburg, or Asimov
or even Harry Potter
a second time.

At work, I hear voices in my ear,
stuck into my ear
on the end of a long tube of radio electronics
compounded by frustrations of static and
long silent lapses when
instead there should be the
issuing of pronouncements
and moment by moment inventories

I listen intently when
the voice says “end of game
twenty one fifteen”
or any other numbers that tell me
the parameters of my freedom

I scribble them down
hurriedly
then write them again carefully
so I can read them in the dark
the going home time, the
end of job at twenty one fifteen
that may or may not have any basis in reality
but free my psyche to smile no matter
how much my feet hurt.

We stand in our allotted spaces
with chocolate covered Altoids
stuck into corners of our mouths
wrinkling the end of game numbers into crinkles
in our pockets
trying to remember what they are while
trying not to spit on the customers
when saying good night
thank you for coming
thank you please glad to see you
while scratching a not so stray dog under the chin.

I can do this.

All by myself over here in this radio hell
I scribble number strings until
I am let loose to
eat in my own home and soak in my own bath
grab sleep at last
enough of it to get me through to life again
only later to dig in my scribbles
for any noted importance’s
I know have been mislaid
as always.