The Fog

The fog presses against my window
It reminds me that there is a blank canvas I’ve yet to revisit
It reminds me that there is more to my view
Than that overview of cluttered houses and flooded streets
The fog seems to invade my office corner,
It glides around me, smoky and quiet
It pleads me to rest

Sometimes I forget to sit upright
I try to research the correct way to approach
corporate sedentarism,
They sell you special office chairs,
and ergonomic keyboards
they adjust the thermostat to the right kind of quiet and clean
they provide you with multiple screens
with staplers and checklists
they provide you with everything you need
and all you need to give back is: your time.

Most times I’m alone at my desk,
I read more about methodology
than I do about substance
I have three unopened poetry books
tucked under my three-hole-punch
I reach for the keyboard, and my fingers twist into
this foreign type of technical language
I click clack at the buttons, punching in data
designing the workflow of others,
nurturing the growth of others
deaf to the voices that remind me
to pace myself, lest it become a flood
that will hold me back

I work, faintly remembering
what it felt like to rhythmically criss cross with an idea
to feel it dance around in my head as I pursue it with fervor
I try to remember what it was like to be consumed
by something other than metrics and key performance indicators
I try to remember the difference between knowledge and information
I try to remember the deep breath that follows
a sudden association
I try to remember the different thought flavors
the verses and colors and sensations
and they elude me, they warp into the swirling mist
I’ve locked outside my window

I miss it.
I miss having a mistress stalking me through the fog
whispering into my being,
braiding words into my brain like it’s my salvation
showering me with chills and tears

The fog glides outside my window
I look away from my computer
from my reports
from my strategic plans
from my charters and meetings,
I look away from my colorless desk,
from my policy binders
I look away, for a moment
into that fog
And I try to find her,
to tell her that my back hurts,
to tell her that my eyes strain,
to tell her that my hands are dry
to tell her that my mouth is shut
to plead her to bring me back

The fog instead retrieved into herself
and dripped down to the street
and washed away from my view
and the only click clack I now hear
is from the rain as it falls onto my window,

punching in data from the fog
designing the workflow of others,
nurturing the growth of others
deaf to my cries as I plead it
to pace itself, lest it become a flood
that will drown us both.






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