Purpose

On a sheet in my notebook the word purpose glows with infernal light. I'm supposed to sacrifice the bones in my body, the nerves in my skin, all the jokes I tell myself in the shower and all the dream rock concerts I stage in my reveries, for this: purpose. Believe me when I say I'd rather stay in bed, until an angry relative pulls me out with forceps for a second birth. Or instead I'd hide in a safety deposit box, one no one can open because I've swallowed the castor oiled key. Except you, Mr. Guy Above Spying on Girls, Sheep, and Volcanoes, wants me to trudge each day to work, 9 a.m. sharp, and drink from meetings like holy grails, watch the acceptable entertainment at home, approved by the Lord's shopping network. I'd throw away this word if I could. I'd trample it, smack it upside its head. Jam a comma in between r and p, like a prisoner shiving a stoolie. Then I'd pose for the photo, while the cat who ate the canary purrs.