life insurance
after twenty-two years dodging
employment, shirking responsibilities,
draining my expendable finances,
my son informs me he’s hired on at
Banker’s Life as an insurance agent.
the last thing I want to be
is the sort of father who pisses
down his child’s dreams, but I
have to ask how the hell he hired
on anywhere with his employment record.
my son shrugs and admits
the manager asked after his
scant job history and my son
graciously allowed that while
he recognized the importance
of menial labor for a
properly functioning society,
that shit just wasn’t for him.
and he bought that line of shit?
of course he did, I answer myself.
they’re from the same generation.
these kids grew up never having
to drop ten dollars on a crack
whore blowjob. they never witnessed
a jackass pay twenty dollars to
breathe blueberry scented air through
a straw at the mall’s oxygen bar.
what the hell do you know about
selling insurance? I ask,
still struggling to remain supportive.
I don’t have to know anything.
they train me. I’m taking
online classes, and I’ll take the
license test in another two weeks.
this is where I should hug him,
tell him how incredibly proud
I am… rather… okay, I say
roleplay this out for me.
dad, I’m really not in the mood.
you’re the helpful insurance agent,
I’m the jittery meth head
with two caps of dope and
thirty-six cents to his name
suddenly suffering an epiphany
I’m gonna die sooner than later
and I should probably have a policy
to ensure I leave something behind.
he believes its not likely to happen.
I ask him to humor me.
hello, welcome to Banker’s Life,
how can I help you today?
GIVE ME THE FIVE HUNDRED
THOUSAND DOLLAR LIFE
INSURANCE POLICY RIGHT
NOW, MOTHERFUCKER!
I AIN’T PLAYING WITH YOUR
BUTTONED-UP, COLLARED
SHIRT WEARING ASS.
INSURANCE NOW, GODDAMMIT.
my son sighs and hands me
a legal pad and tells me
to write down my name and
all the pertinent information,
or just write a poem chronicling
how cleaver I am, whatever gets
me to leave him alone the quickest.
Horror Sleaze Trash 