Clear My Name
I fall asleep while trying
to clear my name.
At breakfast,
I find said moniker
in the mud.
After a good spray
and air dry
I wear my name
to the park.
A strange man
stands next to me
with a newspaper,
informing me:
“We need to put your name
back into witness protection.”
Who knew a name
could carry so much weight?
The contract is hidden
in the daily rag
so I do not sign.
If a person
brings me papers
to sign, it should be
in a newspaper
that ends in “Times”
I zone out
as the agent disappears.
A sharp twinge
steals my attention.
How did that arrow
get there?
I would chase after
Secret Agent Man
but I’m stuck.
Fifteen seconds later
and the agent returns
waving a new contract,
fresh pages of hope.
I sign because the feeling
in my shoulder
is starting to fade.
An ambulance is called.
It’s just a flesh wound.
I’ll live.
I don’t read often
so I ask him
about my new identity.
He tells me
I’ll be a human jukebox.
I ask him
if he has any requests.
He sticks a quarter
in my ear
and tells me
to be quiet.
Ambulance arrives
to me singing the blues.
Paramedics ask me
to stop breaking
their concentration.
The problem is
that once a jukebox
gets going
it cannot be stopped
unless it’s unplugged.
A second arrow
saves everyone the trouble.
Samuel Strathman is a poet, visual artist, author, and custodian. His debut poetry collection, "Omnishambles" is forthcoming with Ice Floe Press.