John David Muth

Dodge the Guillotine

We anxiously skim the pharmacy shelves
in the family planning aisle
bypassing the condoms and vaginal lubricant
trying to find the home pregnancy tests.

My wife is a week late
her breasts hurt
she is a bit nauseous.
I share her nausea contemplating
she could be carrying another version of me.

We locate a box in the corner of the store.
Three men lie dead nearby
of self-inflicted gunshot wounds.
I guess the results were positive for them.

Racing home,
I imagine myself in Revolutionary France
lying under a guillotine blade.
The magistrate sentences me to death.
I protest my innocence
tell him I hate children
always pulled out
never lingered longer than I should.
He reminds me that sperm,
like any good army,
always sends out scouting parties
before a big attack.

She goes into the bathroom
a box tears
the toilet seat bangs open.
My eyes peer into the empty basket,
while the screaming crowd
throws stale bread and horse dung at me,
creating shit sandwiches
I hope I won’t have to eat.

Three minutes later, she opens the door
assures me she’s not pregnant.
The magistrate announces my pardon.
The crowd boos.

 

The Horseman Comes

I see him in my rearview mirror
eyes hidden by sunglasses
lips twisted in anger
riding my back bumper
though I am going the speed limit.

At first, I wonder if he’s drunk
late for a weekend job
or a victim of Irritable Bowel Syndrome.
The insignia on his front grill
comes into view:
a row of four interconnected circles,
and I finally understand.

His vehicle is from the Book of Revelation,
one of the four horsemen of shitty driving:
Audi, Mercedes, BMW, Tesla,
symbols of status to some,
a warning to others:
asshole on board.
There is no one to stop them.
Even the police no longer care.

I swerve to the shoulder of the road
and jam on the brakes.
A rush of air from the passing car
screams in my ear.
Seven trumpets blare,
meld into the sound of a horn,
as the Evil One
now rides the ass
of the Toyota that was in front of me.

 

I Don’t Like My Colleagues Very Much

Pick a number from a cup.
The lowest number goes first.
Take an anonymous gift from the table.
Open the wrapping
in front of your colleagues.
If the next person likes it,
they can steal it,
and you must get another gift.

Those are the rules
for our office Christmas grab bag,
an event where anticipation
resentment
and revenge
disguise themselves as holiday fun.

I hate this grab bag,
initiated by a boss who uses clichés like:
only the strong survive and
to the victor goes the spoils.
Most of my colleagues,
young and recently hired,
believe this circa-1985 stock broker philosophy.

For my gift this year,
I put a basic solar calculator,
the kind Walmart sells for $9.95,
into the box of a computer tablet
and watched with yuletide glee
as the first person unwrapped it.

My gift changed hands in quick succession.
There were looks of disappointment
barely disguised rage
and finally, the triumphal smile of Evelyn,
the office spy,
who will go home to find
a gift worthy of her treachery. 

 

John David Muth was born and raised in central New Jersey. For the last twenty-four years, he has been an academic advisor, working for Rutgers University. His latest book, Songs of Arthritis (Kelsay Books), was published in 2023 and can be found on Amazon.com.