Black Box

I was someone's
honor's student once,
a sticker, a star.
I aced Home Ec and Geometry;
 
I learned to stab a fork,
steer my mother's car.
Old enough to work,
I refreshed the salad bar
 
at Steak & Ale,
scarcity a line
I couldn't fail.
The summers between university,
 
interned at AT&T,
in the minority
outreach they called Inroads.
My boss, Vicki, had two
 
roommates, whom she
called, simply, The Gays,
crashing on her floor.
That was before
 
I was gay, I won't try to say
with a straight face.
Like anyone really cares,
I care. What I'm trying to say:
 
all this prepared
me for these squat blinking
office accessories.
The dry drinking
 
after the accidental reply-all.
By now there's a lot to lose.
Little by little, I have become
so careful, no talk
 
of politics, or orientation:
I let them say, he's “a homosexual,”
without an arch correction.
At a fondue buffet
 
in Zurich, our dumb-
founded senior group
director—when I let slip,
damn it, my trip
 
with a twenty-year-old—inquired,
They're always over seventeen,
right? I told her of course,
god yes, and, seething, smiled,
 
which I'm famous for.
I didn't want to scare
her. But I tell you,
I'm keeping score.
 
E-mail is no more
than a suicide
I'd like to please recall.
Note my suicide.
 
I'm paid to multitask,
scramble the life
out of fun:
Monday I will ask—
 
every dash a loaded gun,
every comma, a knife—
you to bury the black-box file.

Randall Mann, "Black Box" from jubilat. Copyright © 2014 by Randall Mann.  Reprinted by permission of Randall Mann.
More Poems by Randall Mann