The Boss


Whose coat has sleeves made entirely of wristwatches

and whose tuning-fork tongue resonates
at the exact frequency of the overhead fluorescent lights
(washing all color from our faces),

who can be communicated to only through timecards
and who dictates with paychecks.

Despite a love of proper procedure, whose head whirls
bingo tumbler, random number-ball generator.
Two orbs settle into whose sockets, roll to show their numbers,
and watch until an eyeblink, whereupon they are sucked

back into whose skull of disordered thoughts to be replaced by two others.

But in my head there is an empty darkness and a young foxglove
growing in the thin light through pinprick pupils.

Workplace pulse comes from whose bilge-pump heart,
whose office consumes my thoughts. Listen carefully:
(this flower is poison) when I say you’re the boss
(this flower is rage)
I want you to know exactly what I mean.
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Josh Pearce has published more than 200 stories, reviews, and poems in a wide variety of magazines, including Analog, Asimov's, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Bourbon Penn, Cast of Wonders, Clarkesworld, Diabolical Plots, Kaleidotrope, Locus, Strange Horizons, On Spec, Weird Horror, and elsewhere. Find more of his writing at fictionaljosh.com.