Loneliness of an office worker

I’m having granola at my desk.

The sun is shining on the other side

of concrete and brick and glass.

I’m in a file room. There’s dust,

but it’s not like the honest happy dust

of manual labor, but rather the sad

lethargic dust of forgotten playground

daydreams. I had raisins earlier.

They reminded me of sun from when

I was about seven and disheveled

in my poncho and sandals.

I had no idea I’d be expected to conform

or that I’d always fall short.

Daydreams at seven taste too sweet at 47.

I adjust my scarf and say thank you

to the woman who says she likes my hair.

She says, “how brave” and I cringe

because the grey is not my idea of valor.

I feel bravest when I step out of bed

and face a day I wouldn’t have chosen

but it’s mine and it’s ok because

I’m still disheveled and like sweet dreams.