by Richard P. Mayer
The wind blew open the door and Ozzie materialized.
He slid in sideways, a faded reflection un-detected.
A swarm of workaholics were struggling to decompress,
swathed in a stifling, fetid, florescent miasma.
Occupied in animated tête-à-tête they sling metaphors;
their fingers snatch chunky pieces of syntax in-flight.
Smoking vowels and snorting syllables by the line, they
carelessly aim their cold grey wolf eyes – probing.
Conversation flowed like the tide rolling in and out;
laughter replicating the crash of massive waves.
People were swallowed whole in the scrum;
reappearing moments later with a new identity.
Navigating the crowd without being seen was not difficult.
Ozzie says: everyone’s brain was recalibrated this night,
his presence similar to the static of a broken radio;
nearby but without form or function.
This particular occasion he chooses not to materialize,
believing that their fragile workaholic egos, if exposed,
will cause an existential crisis drifting into a contagion.
So, he remains on the same frequency and moves about,
wicking energy from the self-absorbed participants;
always being careful to avoid the saturation point
Richard P. Mayer is a retired Clinician and Health Care Executive who lives in the Park Slope section of Brooklyn, New York, with his wife Patty. He started writing in his early twenties when he returned home from the military. During a re-location he lost the box that contained all of his hand-written poems, and they were gone forever. He recently experienced a desire to write again and enrolled in a creative writing course, read a lot of poetry, and has tried to be disciplined in both his reading of contemporary authors and taking the time to write more consistently. He views his work as not overly complex, hopefully easy to comprehend, and the cutting edge of nothing. The poem “It Was Early Evening” is based on individuals who work very long and stressful hours at their job and the process of “decompression” requisite to remain functional.