Written by Phillip Woodruff
that’s what the sign says on the building across the street
and while it creeps me out completely
i wonder if they’re hiring?
i wonder what experience is required, do i need to be certified? ordained?
and what do you call someone who crafts these beautiful little haunted houses?
coffinsmith? journeyman casketeer?
dead grandmother gift wrapper?
i’ll need a business card
other job openings in my area: nuclear waste taste tester, substitute backup
pickle briner, deep sea firefighter, bubblegum food color lab tech
interim office-temp hiring manager (but it’s just a day gig, you know
until someone publishes my pop-up book of cartoon philosophy)
as coffinsmith, i’ll make minimum wage with a 401k
paid vacation, social stratification and employee discount
instead of smoke breaks i’ll pound nails in my own personal project coffin
fourteen square foot subterranean death aquarium, mini bar
surround sound, and a launch button, just for fun
more employment options i should consider: love monkey
disaster junkie, used car salesman stunt double
best supporting actor in a superficial and techno-colored administrative role
semi-pro miniature golf sports radio commercial break announcer
(and now a word from our sponsor: matthews international
casket division) and i wonder what the other divisions manufacture
lawn chairs? christmas ornaments? baby cribs?
when i retire, the company will throw a nice party
all my favorite people, all my favorite snack crackers
i’ll drink until i can’t stand, then lay down in my coffin
coworkers will carry me down to the river and cheer
“he worked himself to death! all hail the coffinsmith!”
or i could end this bullshit right now
park the car in the river, between two buffalo peaks
nothing but a loin cloth and a slingshot
run gorilla-knuckled into the wild
i wonder what my high school guidance counselor might think of that
i wonder what junior-grade i.r.s agents might think of that
i wonder what executive marketing department senior survey supervisors
might think about that
let them make their own coffins
Text © Phillip Woodruff
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