Viva Cannon Fodder
Underwood drinks cold coffee and browses his notes
Margins full of restless doodles, “the art of meetings”.
The day out his window is unseasonal, too hot,
like the sun from a month in the future.
A reminder chimes from his desktop,
And a few seconds later from his phone.
His clock no longer ticks in seconds;
It chimes with obligations.
Checks his calendar. Tomorrow is wall to wall.
Green and pink rectangles, a ledger of his time.
From the doctor to the technician, prescriptions,
a lawyer will call, someone from the home will visit.
A ten-peso coin balances on edge beside a cable
Some bent cards, a name tag, an empty toner.
Change from a cantina just over the border
It could fall either way.