Fired I remember being called to the office of the vice president of human resources with the consultant hired just for this occasion, who looked nothing like George Clooney from that movie and who told me I wasn’t a fit in their future which made axing me as legitimate as losing my designated parking spot. I wasn’t allowed to gather personal things like family photos or simply saying goodbye, but when they took my Blackberry (despite it holding the details of everyone I knew) I felt stripped of more than that job but every job I ever had. But let me be completely honest with you, dear reader, I fired myself. I hated that place and most of the people who worked in it. I hated stepping up the worn marble stairs to my third-floor office with its view of the iconic New England town and its square which was actually a circle but I digress. I worked for the money. I never harbored lofty dreams, had no causes I believed in, no aspirations to do
School The day Magic Johnson was diagnosed with H.I.V. I punched James in the face in the high school playground for calling him a faggot. I saw James 5 years later on Darlinghurst Street, muscular and tanned, in tight white jeans, aviator sunglasses, and a hot-pink singlet. His arm lovingly around another man with similar clothes and build. I smiled, "Both he and Magic have somehow made it," I thought as they continued along the road. Brenton Booth lives in Sydney, Australia. Poetry of his has appeared in New York Quarterly, Chiron Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Main Street Rag, Naugatuck River Review, Van Gogh's Ear, and Nerve Cowboy. He has two full length collections available from Epic Rites Press. brentonbooth.weebly.com