THE INTERVIEW

Sweaty palms. Lump in my throat.

Nails furiously bitten.

Nervous energy accumulates,

frantic twitches to calm yourself.

Your name is called,

you have leaden feet.

Push. Get up. Walk slowly to your doom.

Clasp his hand. Flash your teeth.

Say your name. Take a seat. 

Question. Question. Is there an answer?

Rack your brain. Stall for time.

An interrogation for no crime.

Question. Question. Is there an answer?

He plays a song. Dance to his tune.

He asks you something, and makes you croon.

Question. Question. Is there an answer?

Stumbling through whatever you say,

thank The Man, be on your way.

Question. Question. Is there an answer?

The results come in, you're still around.

He takes you in, for one more round.

Question. Question. Is there an answer?

You go again, and do the same,

He must be sure you can be tamed.

Question. Question. Is there an answer?

You get the job, and make it rain.

But yet you wonder: Boon or Bane?

Question. Question. There is no answer.