by Charles W. Harvey
Here comes the Clipboard
With his pen blood filled
Dangling like a cut-off dick.
Here he comes. Here he comes again.
I’m the man on the treadmill
Being measured for how much
Heart I have.
I run fast. I sweat piss.
The clipboard nods, frowns
Hunches his feminine shoulders
As he adjusts dials and switches.
I’m the man in the vat of ice water.
A hood over my head hides me from him.
The clipboard yells out questions staccato style
His hot spit on my nipples is my only comfort.
I tell him I can’t even spell “Ben Laden”
The “Crips” and the “Bloods” are a rock group
And as far as I know they still hide cocaine inside Coca-Cola.
I’m just a working man, a foot soldier
Bringing home bacon
One slice at a time.
The clipboard harrumphs
Orders more ice for his drink.
Sitting down over coffee
What do you think of “nigger?”
The clipboard asks me.
I say it’s very good
Even on a scale of ten...
Yes I like it better than Aunt Jemima and Uncle Tom
The clipboard frowns and writes furiously
As if he’s screaming words at his Mama.
He feeds all my answers into a computer
And outcomes a composite sketch of me
Looking something like Willie Horton
Something like Colin Powell
Something like Clarence Thomas
Something like John Allen Muhammad.
Charles Harvey's works have appeared on this site, Velvet Mafia, and others. He lives and works in Houston. You can see some of his fiction at www.amazon.com/shorts.