The day Connie died
was much like any other:
the sun rose
the alarm chimed
the coffee percolated
the train ran late
– nothing out of the ordinary really.
It was a day like many others
the day Connie died.

Mr. Rosen didn’t notice
that I’d snuck in half past
because he doesn’t pay attention
to much of anything.
If I go a week
without providing any deliverables,
no one complains.
It’s a pretty sweet gig
if you keep your head down.

I went out for a smoke around eleven
even though I quit five weeks back.
I just wandered the block
looking for things to see
like the monkey peddler at the corner
and the gypsy whores somewhere before.
By the time I got back to the office
it was lunchtime
so we all gathered ’round the wooden table
and chowed down.
Mr. Rosen asked if anyone had any news
and Sally hemmed and hawed
about her research on the humor of Hemingway
and Jackie Brown made a joke
about "killing the man, Joe."
Nobody laughed.

We got back to work
later in the afternoon
and I did a solid twenty three minutes
before getting antsy
so I went on walkabout.

When I got back
I heard that Connie had died
in a grizzly fashion.
Everybody was shaken,
including me
because I didn’t know anything about it
at all.
It was a total surprise to me
when I heard about it
back in the office.

I hunkered down
until evening
then at the crack of five
went straight home
for a nice Chianti
and thoughts about Connie.
Pretty typical,
like I said.

What’s that?

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