on saturdays, the boss

likes to get up early, before killer gets up,

and make a pot of coffee, then run across the street to

buy the national post and the

ottawa citizen to go with the

globe and mail, which is already lying

in the vestibule, where the boy slings it every morning

under the door. He then begins,

customarily,

his binge

of two-fisted media-and--caffeine

consumption.

When he emerges from his trance,

he will either be infused with his megalomanical sense

of possibility or, like today,

ratlling with paranoid certainty that the world

is rolling right past him.

he’s gone now, the boss, running around

trying to catch up with it. the world, that is.

he seems convinced that every year

he gets slower and it gets faster.

yes, it is pathetic.

you want to know about me; i am a bug.

oh, yes. i am a silverfish to be exact and i am jumping up

and down on his keyboard one letter at a time

and so excuuuuse me

but you get no capitals, no special characters, no question marks.

you think this is easy for me. it’s not.

but i have things to tell you

while the boss is away. he thinks

he’s killed us all but i

live in his beloved mac

and i have things to tell you.