He’s Got 30 Minutes For Lunch;
Miguel the janitor called in sick
so there’s nobody to talk to again.
There’s 20 Minutes Left For Lunch;
Hunched over brown paper-bag pastrami,
again,on rye that’s gone stale
and a warm Dr.Pepper.
There’s 15 Minutes Left For Lunch;
A seersucker-suit came round yesterday,
checking ID’s,he didn’t check the lockers
figuring nobody would steal any of the books.
There’s 10 Minutes Left For Lunch;
Tomorrow he can have something different,
he’ll ask when he gets home,
though not in time tonite for “Bonanza”
and “I Love Lucy” because of the crowds.
There’s 5 Minutes Left For Lunch;
Over now at the window he looks
down onto the Plaza,the motorcade’ll
be here soon!..he panics..where’s the locker key?
It’s right here..
Lunch Is Over;
He takes out the package,unwraps it,
opens the window,he’s sorry that
he didn’t get to show Miguel
the Janitor what was in the package..
They’re here now!!..
He aims the .303
(an early performance work of mine,circa,autumn 1999;macabre?erm.yes;I never could get the hang of sloppy lurve perms..)