Steven Ray Smith

The Musty Places Don't Demand 

I prefer the musty places —
The bowling alleys and old church basements,
Places where people offer smoke
To help a laugh, to hide, or both.

Like bars on punched-out boulevards —
The type of places that look untoward
Until you actually walk inside
And find them lined in Christmas lights.

But where else can bowlers go?
Where can a nervous preacher go
And exhale the untold story
Of why the preacher never married

And have a neighbor understand?
The musty places don’t demand
That every story be consistent.
They know exactly what you meant.

Polonius advises the new C.E.O.

Remember, every half-dram thing you say
will dry atop that mural on the wall.
They’ll grouse about their free staff café,
press to take off Fridays, then have the gall
to blame you for missing quarterly bonus.
Though it piques you, smile amid the echo.
One slipshod rebut will be an onus
upon you, eternal as your lobby fresco.
While each new M.B.A. will have a tack
to right your business, seat your table with old
and trusted friends — those to answer back
for you, speak up to you, help you sit bold
and quiet in your French cashmere blazer
to play the C.E.O. with good behavior.