Let Go Of - Sept 8 2025

 

Let Go Of

Sept 8 2025

When they let me go

they called me redundant.

Redundant,

as in using 2 words

when 1 will do.

I was a novel, or epic poem

when I should have been flash fiction

or even Haiku.

Apparently, like a long form writer

who dilly dallies

in getting to the point

I hadn’t made myself of use. 

They could just as have said deadwood

or feather-bedding layabout,

but were too polite

to say what they thought.

The whole thing left me wondering 

if I’d just become

or always was

redundant. 

Had I been an affront all along

to capitalist efficiency?

Was my work ever valued

and worth having done,

or was it paper shuffling

and staring into screens

while hoping no one noticed?

When a job is everything

redundancy hurts;

they let you go

and nothing’s left of you.

But how delightful it was

to be let go of,

no one tying me down 

or holding me back,

not contained so tight

I could hardly breathe.

And to be fired

which no one says anymore

is like clay in the kiln;

imparting strength

and transforming my glaze

to a smooth lustrous finish.

From impermanent

to porcelain.

And what’s wrong with redundancy anyway?

Sometimes, you must repeat to be heard

say it twice to be sure.

Sometimes, a poet’s fed up 

with culling, paring, and cutting to the bone.

He wants free rein with words —

a dictionary 

and a good thesaurus,

no editor

red pen at the ready

dolefully shaking his head.

Wants a handshake

severance 

and a brisk escort out,

and then to be let go

out into the world.

Just as useless as they said

and redundant as he ever was,

but with a sense of purpose

he never felt.

I get fed up with euphemism. Did you really become “redundant”? Or were you lousy at your job? That is, “redundant” all along?  

Whichever, we all know what was meant; so why not just say “fired”? Result’s the same.

Is redundant now a bad word? 

Is paid employment the only way to be of use?

And is useful the same as purposeful?