Isn't This A GREAT Poem!

On the Job


by B. J Omanson


Chin squarely on chest, feet up, fedora
pulled down over eyes. The telephone
hasn't rung in a month. An acrid aura
of cigarettes and residual gloom
turns everything dingy: desk and chair,
the windows and walls and the very air.
He could do with a solid client, and soon.
Beneath a pint bottle, bottom drawer,
a bundle of unopened bills attests
to the tide of ruin that laps his door.
He dozes, half-hearing the traffic's drone.
The insolent bluebottle fly that rests
like an ex-wife's taunt beside the blotter
bestirs him at last. He lifts the swatter.