​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.