Leslie F. Miller
odd jobs
now who would count mosquitoes’ teeth,
give colors names like puce and quince,
unite two gametes in a tube,
or hybridize the marmalade plum?
who’d wear a red zucchetto and
light candles in the mausoleum?
who’d ride a tightrope on a bike
or measure skulls of antelopes?
would you beget the zygote, clone
a sheep, assemble autos, test
a warhead, chop the onions, add
some salt, a pinch of this, a dash
of that? could you take the oath
of oval office, bang the gavel,
ring that bell that tolls for me,
that tolls for him? and could you see
the future in a deck of cards?
and will you take up arms when they
come knocking at your door? or will
you hold this pen and write these poems?
you might wake up before the sun
extinguishes the stars and work
until the dark has swallowed up
the sky and then do it again
for little in the pocket or the soul.
and is this not the oddest job,
to watch as life slips quickly by,
to watch, to slip, too quick, goodbye.