Funny

I’ve told you this joke before.
The one where the man gets up
every day of his life, puts on
his terrible clothes, goes in
to a job that makes a
subtraction from his soul
every day without fail.

He lives in a rented room.
No fridge, no stove, no
visitors after 10 p.m.
so no chance for a love
to cleave his solitude,
to solve his ruined heart
or forgive his longing.

He has written a fine poem.
It’s hidden throughout a notebook
he keeps by his rented bed with
the pistol and the alarm clock.
It would provide a cure
if only he could fix
the order of all those words.

The poetry of prose of Robert L. Penick have appeared in over 100 different literary journals, including The Hudson Review, North American Review, and Slipstream. More of his work can be found at theartofmercy.net.