ron tackett
The Superfluousness of a Salesman
By Bob McNeil

My ears ignored
the storming-scorn
during each sale’s spiel
on the touchtone horn.

My nose endured the bologna
served to the phonable
on a Monday to Friday schedule.

My funeral wreath rested
above my bludgeoned rebellion
that used to shun the Ponzi-tongued
Like the type I had become.

My feet in faux leather shoes
felt servitude’s welts
and pink slip pelts
trying to char
the pelt off my hull.

My response was,
finally, the Heartless Personnel Department’s
fire would cart these hind parts
away forevermore.

IMAGE: “No Solicitors or Peddlers” by Ron Tackett. Prints available at

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: When asked to define human existence, Bob McNeil said, “Life is a Dadaist poem.  It was never composed to be understood.”