Salt In The Wound

Enough salt spilled
to be noticed on black paper,
not so much that I couldn’t count
the number of individual grains,
though I don’t; it’s surely not enough
to pinch up and toss against bad luck.

Happens often enough but
I’m afraid it’s starting to get
ruinous.  I should have been
vigilant before this.
Spill enough salt and demons
begin to stalk you;

unstable demons, thirsting for salt.
That explains the fear
that’s chewing at me
as the phone doesn’t ring today,
didn’t ring yesterday,
hasn’t rung in months.

I have a good resume, strong skills,
ready references. I interview well,
fit in, get along, can lead or follow as needed.
I know who I am and what I can do.
I know who I was and how I got here.
So it must be demons holding back the job.

They have to be the reason
I have time to sit here and count
grains of salt to collect and throw.
They have to be displeased with me;
I only hope
it’s not too late to atone.

It is salt in the wound
to know how insane this sounds,
salt in the wound that I no longer care.
I am counting
and hoping for enough salt
to throw soon.