A kind of jolly... literary fellow

Harrington was a hell of a man
creatively fucked, commercially programed
corporately cut like a fat dough boy cookie

he cleaned carpets, de-contaminated smoked wood
declared proudly he was the best among his underpaid crew
not only did his machines roll, they steamed, they boiled

with head nicely shined and teeth nicely whitened
he would sit in his stiff collar complacently smiling
behind a polished desk organized neatly with desolation

he and his wife attended church admiring inscribed pews
they square danced in perfect tri-angular symmetrics
ate bbq with silverware polished to a pristine gleam

pleasantly poised and determined he roamed through town
with all the latest conveniences, all the latest swatches
a “Babbitt” incarnate, so often met in previous chapters

~Emily Loren Moss