To Any of My Last Three Bosses
Caesar, Caesara, Caesarum. Whatever you prefer.
I can see you twitch as my words are intoned.
I can recall with the precision of a mimic
how you strain to tolerate my timid,
gray presence.
I understand you carry the weight of your office.
You sacrifice your lunch and steer our team
from the firm vantage of your expanding behind.
You guide lesser mortals, none lesser than I,
and direct us in the timely completion
of repetitive tasks of illusory merit.
I will light three dozen candles in your name.
I will seed the memory of your deeds among the youth,
and ensure not one will complete a timesheet,
or a vacation request, without thinking of the grandeur
of civilization and say, under their breath,
you are the righteous general,
fated to lead interdepartmental battles
as heroes once skirmished on the fields of Troy,
Flanders, and Normandy.
Until,
one day,
soon,
legendary conspiracy theories
will come to harvest all at once,
and our capitalist days will be swept away,
as JFK, riding one of the space lizards
from the north pole,
will lead us to find the truth
of the death of Olaf Palme
in the basement of a humble bakery.
Think of me,
amid the thermonuclear clouds,
and remember, I knew decades before you,
when to care, and when to let go.