by Ben Purkert
First let’s cover the bare bones. Must handle sink or swim. Must run off copies without being pressed. Day & night you shadow the big guy, that clear? Hold his calls, screen his oyster pails full of Indian. He’s not after a little Miss Universe. He’s seen plenty of bodies & they’re mostly water. Only an idea with legs is worth lipstick. If you’re not pant suit material, he’ll dress you down. Each morning you’ll roll up at exactly one dream older. You’ll learn to fix yourself at red lights. With the punch code, remember to push all nine digits down your throat. Only an airhead buzzes up.
Ben Purkert’s poems are forthcoming or have recently appeared in The New Yorker, Denver Quarterly, The Awl, Spoon River, New Orleans Review, DIAGRAM, and elsewhere. He holds degrees from Harvard and NYU, and is currently completing his first manuscript, One Good. He was recently named a finalist for the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown Fellowship.