Downsized
Bruce Gunther

The velvet smile,
the weak handshake:
“Thanks for your service,”
a line so rehearsed
it had the emotion of wood.
Walking out, the others
try not to stare, their
gossip locked and loaded.
Emerge into the frozen
sunlight of February, wind
with its sharpened teeth.
The boss watches you leave
before placing a checkmark
beside an entry in his planner.
Driving home, the car’s heater
taking forever as ribbons of snow
dance across the freeway.
All the while thinking,
why did I accept that handshake?
Why not the grand exit,
an epitaph, or laughing
in his face like a drunken
clown at midnight, or
a hyena joining its
pack for a feast
of prey?
Instead, I loosen my tie,
letting out some air
beneath the noose.