Born in the Year

of the Snake

I’m a snake with

an office. It’s my

hole. There I call

many businesses

to sell lots of oil.

I have a pint-sized

cactus with a pot

and a filthy desk.

I slide off at five.

I’ve been devious

and cold-blooded.

I faked my charges

for a trip abroad.

I imagined biting

a worker’s ankle

beside the postal

machine, making

her stockings run.

I buttered up my

boss at a Chinese

restaurant. A top

gun couldn’t tell

the stuff I thought

about. A snake’s

a creep, like the

devilish woman

in a noir movie.

I read the paper

fortune in a tiny

cookie. It struck

me as a warning:

beware the rage

of your enemies.

I didn’t foresee

certain problems.

They came next.