The Work Week Begins
A day as gray as his sad old underwear. How can he focus through the haze of apologies left in the wake of his latest shame? A beer keg rolls down the street. A police car pursues but can't catch it. Across the street a funeral erupts in a riot. Everyone wants to claim the carcass as his own. He observes from a safe distance. Although he has often sat down to eat with the dead he's not in the mood today. His pencils need sharpening and his blotter displays graffiti that would get him fired if his boss should ever read it. He peers from the window. Avoiding the funeral crowd, the beer keg crashes into his parked car and knocks a headlight into the street. The police leap from their cruiser, guns drawn. They peer at the keg, kick it, then step back and fire. Riddled and sighing, it surrenders. The funeral riot fades in the distance, a shout of triumph yellowing the sky. He rummages through his bottom drawer for a pint of vodka. Instead he finds a prosthetic limb left over from the last war. He tries it on and likes it so much he decides to have it surgically attached. The limb fits more comfortably than his natural one does, and he waves it at his boss, who smiles and waves in return.
