Works by Ben Balazs

Body language is more than a cue, More than a wave of the hand or arms. It often speaks as the name begets, Inflicting pain or mouthing charm. It is the instructor telling her class, "I shouldn't work harder than you," While cupping her eyes At the lower lip of their lids. Nosing up. Staring down. Wearing down the academe Who would not dare to make a scene Because the son at home is hungry, And Momma needs to make more money. Baby boy can't milk the breast of Promise and degree for long. He wants the taste of stress and sweat As much as the next helpless child. Maybe that's why Toddlers would crawl through mazes like mice To come upon a few sweet treats Because they are sick of Momma's tired teet. But she will work harder than the voice across the room. The ode to seniority. The air of superiority Which reduces Momma to a sponging mind and pencil. Whose task for now Is looking up longingly at the security That hovers over the...

I am all the clock-wiser With four arms extended. Two to dance around the table. Two to tell me when to stop. Ticking, clicking, poking, and prodding away The day. Feeling enlightened when I deduce One cannot count down hours in a line When they only run in circles. Or I am moments passed Hunted and tracked. Or I am the twitching ball in a skull Staring at numbers on a wall. Because the smartest animal on the planet Has not much better to do Than twirl its thumbs In rhythm with a tocking clock. Thump. Thump. Tick. Tock. I may finally understand That five-o-clock shadows are metaphors For the human lifespan.

I like my salads undressed, Un-dripping with sauces of sours and sweets. Withering, pouting leaves that sag with expiration. Too late unshelved, seasoned for tolerance and not flavor, Much like a steak before the icebox obsession. Tended a tossed bowl of greens That only holds such color by name, Stooped to the brand of "bar" because One can't get drunk off fresh vegetables, So they offer a bottle of their strongest ranch. Where the sneeze guard is an obtuse design, As the filth goes in and not out, And patrons must fit into their clothes - Not the other way around. But they'll always promise a one-time fee For butter lettuce and sugar peas. Page after page of cabbage sleeves, All you can read, all you can eat. Everyone's waiting in line for reader's digest.