Out there, in here ... out there!

They say, “Put yourself out there!”

What’s out there is Fun Popularity. 

It’s bright and orange-colored, 

like a plastic hamburger. 

In here, there’s no walls or ceilings

(it’s not a community center, not the Oscars) 

but there’s a silvery blue velvet light

you can see no end of. 

Green mossy rocks underwater 

under feet 

forever. 

No bullet points anywhere 
to be seen

or even checked off. 

You can control out there a little

in here, not at all. 

I was a baby and 

like all babies born wild, 

out of control. 

It’s too late to workshop the baby now. 

Who’s your Dada?

(Nobody’s getting famous 

around here)

61 today, the sexily graying at the temples busboy

buses his last table and clocks out 

in the kitchen. 

See you tomorrow, says someone, theoretically

his boss. 

That’ll be the fucking day, says the busboy.

You’re fired! (the boss) For profanity! 

That’s more like it! (busboy) For perpetuity, too, I hope!

The busboy takes the subway uptown to Juilliard 
and applies for a job: Cello, First Chair. (Or, male chanteuse.)  

Amazingly, after the paperwork, he has an interview 

in five minutes. 

The music department chair pulls one up

and asks 

Can you tell me what a flatted fifth is? 

Oui Madame, I can (says the ex-busboy). 

It’s when you throw a gin bottle out the window

on the West Side Highway. 

You’re hired (says the musical chair).

Can you tell me something about yourself? 

I was fired an hour ago. 

Mon Dieu! Why would you tell me that?

So I can rhyme the end of this poem. 

Oh, I see. Fired, and hired. Good.

When do I begin?

Now.

The end. (Or is it?)