Just my Luck

 

Go Figure...

 

they didn't buy it.

It's good I don't know

 

How many Mondays will I get in my life?  How many sick days or snow days?  How many awards or trophies will I win?  How many beers will I drink?   How many close calls will I have?  How close to the edge will I get before someone pulls me back?

 

Do I thank them or charge them overtime?

 

 

 

 

 

The strong smell of Bleach

 

From several states away

Not knowing becomes magnified

The questions are many, answers few

Concerns fester,

 

From this far away
I believe the doctors are morons
the nurses incompetent

And the crossword left abandoned at the nurse’s station
needs a four-letter word following, CODE _ _ _ _.

 

The hallway hums like a nervous hive, fluorescent bees chewing. I’m states away, squinting at the buzz, trying to catch someone who'll answer the phone. Questions breed like fruit flies in the bowl—tiny, endless, evasive.

The intercom coughs. A shoe squeaks. A clipboard yawns. Faith feels like a thrift-store coat with someone else’s name stitched crooked. 

At the nurse’s station, the crossword waits like a locked door to a different room. Four letters after CODE, the square grins: BLUE, I mutter, and the sound drops an decibel . Maybe the answer is always BLUE—breath held.

Moron. Incompetent. Words clang like pan lids. But somewhere, a hand that knows the map draws a slow circle and says: here. Somewhere, a tired person gets it right without applause, and the night guard takes a break and drinks a paper cup of silence.

The crossword closes like a curtain. I’m still on the other side of the continent, holding a pencil that won’t reach. So I write the things I can’t ask on the margins: WHO // WHEN // WHAT NOW.

 

 Hello?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gravity of the situation

 

After Hours

The hum of the lights has stopped.

The paper jam in the copier can wait for tomorrow.

Night janitors empty waste baskets and check coin returns on the vending machines for change.

The whiteboard in the conference room tells a grim tale of loss sales and poor judgement.

A Biplane sputters overhead and spots a lone figure on a ledge of the office building.

Nothing they can do now.

 

 

 

For the Record

 

Let them form their opinions

from the bits and the scraps

from the gossip and snickers

while they set their own traps,

While on those in disfavor

they openly trod

taking cover, of course

behind the word God.

Yes, I’ve a glass house

but with Windex galore

I’ll not throw a stone

but stand as before,

I am what I am.

Nothing more.

 

 

We are the generators of scary

 

Just as a waterfall can generate electricity, so too can shadows spark the imagination.  Rushing water brings about power, while darkness creates invitations to a nonexistent reality.  Those thoughts that lurk in the recesses of your mind tend to step forward when prompted by shadows.  Never quite welcome in the light of day.