poetryMy Career in Poetry

by Brad Rose

You say I’m only slightly better than the placebo. I chalk it up to easy listening. The world speaks to me in an irrepressible language, but it’s not always in your favorite hue. (Evidently, fuchsia is not my color.) When you ask me what your dreams mean, I blurt out, “I’m not sure. I’ll have to sleep on it.” Of course, you married me on a tax-free holiday. Ask Edward Teller, sometimes the best inventions work better than expected. I fondly recall the first time I saw you. I wondered, Might explosives be involved? You said I looked like an imitation of a dentist.  Like Smith &Wesson, it was obvious we were made for one another.  

Tattooed and happy, we fled Las Vegas,  honeymooned in pins and Needles. The desert wind exhaled its florescent chemistry, as we settled into quotidian mischief. The next day, you quit the circus, because you hated the elephants. I wondered, What does she look like when she’s not dancing?  I asked you to take off your hat. (Sadly, you weren’t wearing one.) Unexpectedly, the children arrived, although frankly, I thought science had discovered a cure for the plague. Weekdays, we robbed banks, elegantly dined with cops in donut shops. Weekends, as I sunned myself by the pool, practiced my arpeggios, you repented. Everyone said that with a voice like mine, I should be in radio.  I agreed.  I just love wide, open spaces. When you demanded that I pursue a more lucrative career in prosody, like a good commercial pilot, I obeyed your instructions with reckless abandon.  It wasn’t long until I’d reached the unparalleled heights of platitude.  “Should I ask for a raise?” I wondered. “Don’t be silly,” you said. “What would we do with all that money?”


Brad Rose is the only person in the United States who has not earned an MFA; he received a BA, however, in English, during the reign of the Tudors. Links to his poetry and fiction can be found at bradrosepoetry.blogspot.com.
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