New poem. 

Someone near me says,
I did that like a boss.

I say to him, wake up. Don’t say that —
who wants to be the boss? He says,

fool, I do. I say, wake up. Who is our secret

enemy? Who is our tight lipped
antagonist? Who is our uneasy 
must-go-to? Who sits on the shoulder
of the road counting our steps
as we slog our heavy loads unwillingly
from one sad place to another?

He says, but not all bosses are bad. I say, yes,
not all bosses are bad but there’s a bad creature
alive in the center of that word.  
It likes the taste of obedience. It says,
please don’t be inconvenient. It says,
stay on the sidewalk with your heavy load,
stay out of the big wide road with your freedoms
and you will be allowed to exercise them
as much as you like. It was the creature
that lives in the center of the word “boss” 
who coined the phrases 
go along to get along,
not all men, and
all lives matter.

He turns his back on me
while shaking his head
and I say to myself,

wake up, fool,
talking like a boss to him — 
clearly you have some boss venom
in you and do you want the poison
of feeling and doing anything
like a boss? Wake up, I tell myself,
and say it: 

no, boss. No.
I’m shutting up. 
I’m sitting down,
I prefer not to.
I prefer not to.