2
the papers are straightened
the buttons depressed
my screen saver is whirling
blue lines with an energy I don't have
I'm seven minutes away from
walking out.
I watch the grey backdrop
behind the docks
I'm working for a man obsessed
with economics
and a finger that pokes at
miscalculations and irregularities
to form a tedious trickle
of formal e-mails, signatures and papers to file.
His sharp eyes complain to
me.
Has he locked up his own history
in the same security conscious manner that
he locks the door of my office
every time he leaves it,
his brushes with angels and
devious spirits,
the laughter of children,
bouts with drunk men, the kiss of his daughters,
forgotten.
©
2000
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