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.


Strange things in the evening air

I rest my chin on the windowsill;

the shadows on the valley

confuse me, all buttery

and slippery, never staying

long enough to be

a tree or a man or a town.

I would like to be held,

I whisper into the glass;


The weather forecast made me

cry and whether it was

the falling barometric pressure

or the severe drop in estrogen,

I understood Chicken Little

like never before

and just hoped I’d survive

until the next surge.

myth of perfect circles

he held a bird in his naked hand,

oblivious to the throngs of people

waiting for a song


clouds spoofed better days

by huffing and puffing across

azure skies, leaving mile-high happy trails


I’m being led to loll about

in scenes that aren’t really there

and I don’t want to know what’s true


we’re either being spit out by

a universe that knows we’re a mistake

or being swallowed by our own delusions


if he lets go, will the bird leave a feather

as a memento or as a warning

and is there a difference

A quiet swirling

It’s a rather desperate longing

and I can’t tell

if it’s for tea or touch or new twists

on old loves that’s pulling;

the supermoons have been relentless

and spring is violent this year.

I can keep up, I say uncertainly

drawing wool over limbs eager

for warm places.