The other brother-in-law

Well, what about him? We were both management
consultants, doing the right things,
wearing the right dark blue Arrow shirts,
working for the right firm, earning the right amount
of money, living with the right women, but then
he did the wrong thing, drinking and driving,
or texting and taunting,
and he had to stand in front of the right judge,
with the right amount of electricity passing
through his body, because if words are cyclones,
uprooting, upending, then judgment is best left
undescribed, they rightly passed him around like
a pizza slice in that right panopticon, calling him
Cynthia, Luella, or Clara, while the guards rightly
said nothing, sister rightly didn’t visit, and then
the wrong thing happened again, he says he
met redemption. Him! Really! That scumbag!
Scoundrel! Slob! I work like
the football player I admire, who rightly
runs up and down the field, and lets his
statistics speak, and rightly changes
the alluring women in his life with each goal scored,
because they want love, and he
doesn’t have time,
I’m not that nomadic
hobbit who suddenly catches fire and makes
world-class defenders look like school children,
that sort of thing does not exist, there is
some trickery there, and even
if it does, I don’t care, damn it! And so let him
think delusion is reality, and I’ll continue
doing the right things, paying the right
money to the right policemen, working
out the right deals, rightly moving from
job to job, rightly moving from
good to great sex, until I’ve rightly conquered
both life and death.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

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