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The Bastard












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The Bastard
a poem by Mark Palermo

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It was a solemn occasion
They gave us the afternoon off
to pay our respects
He was, after all, our general manager-
and he had won awards.

I suggested we all go together in my car
since, without ever talking about it,
we felt ourselves bonded by circumstance,
fellow passengers on the wheel of wage slavery
driven by mortages,
college tuition bills,
and alimony payments.

And so on the way,
each man, in his own way,
and because it was expected,
tried to find some appropriate thing to say,
to conjure some show of sorrow for his passing,
but only pregnant silence filled the car,
and words would not come.
Then we passed Jilly's.
And O'Brien in the back said these words:


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 






"Why the hell are we going to this bastard's funeral?"

I felt the shock wave pass through the car.
We had become accustomed to guarding our feelings,
measuring our words before we spoke,
to lying and wearing masks
and playing the company's bloodsport
of merciless political gamesmanship.

But then someone grunted in agreement,
(he dared not say the words aloud),
one man coughed,
another man chuckled softly at O'Brien's words.

I had never liked O'Brien,
but in that moment I loved him,
and I realized I still loved Truth after all.
I understood what we all wanted,
that which only O'Brien had the balls to say.

Without a word, I turned the car around,
and we went back to Jilly's,
with its sawdust on the floor,
and jukebox  playing Sinatra and the Beatles.
and wide-hipped laughing waitresses,
carrying frosted mugs of ice-cold beer.
We spent the afternoon there,
drinking,
telling jokes,
playing cards,
and not once mentioning
the bastard's name.





























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