2018, Unsolicited Press
After Peter Murphy dies early in this sequence of poems, he is surprised to return as the man who never was. He struggles to make a living because, well, he’s dead.
One Plus One Equals One
The buddy system is essential to survival; it gives the enemy
somebody else to shoot at.
I was canned from sustainable employment
after years of labor. Someone
was working what shouldn’t be worked,
blaming me, scratching my name in triplicate
on carbonless forms. I suspected
another Peter Murphy at work here,
one who intentionally botches things,
and me getting the blame and the claims
on my salary and the threatening messages
on my electronic mail.
I discovered the backslider buried deep
in the guts of the company
where he started in the mail room and stayed.
I looked around his slovenly cubicle,
decided to get tough.
My name is Peter Murphy, I said,
and you are wrecking my life.
When this other Peter Murphy shook his head,
I couldn’t get over how much he looked
like me: same red eyes, blotched face, gray beard.
Same bad posture.
This man too, defeated—
Perhaps there’s a third Peter Murphy,
he suggested, who’s ruining both our lives.
We worked together, uncovered a whole department
where everyone is named Peter Murphy,
each one enjoying the benefits of full employment,
the company of his peers,
the tenure provided by this union.
Each one fucking up the works,
his job, guaranteed for life.