--- D O N A L D   I L L I C H

Two hours too long on the toilet,
reading the latest news about the stars,
I promise myself I’ll be more efficient
with my time, start showering ruthlessly,

soap barely sudsing my body before
I rip the shower curtain and escape.
Phone calls with friends diminish
into thirty second hellos and goodbyes.

Chatting with co-workers is cut,
new photos of babies and dirty jokes
are amputated from my daily life.
In my office I hang up before they

can tell me I’m fired.  My door’s closed,
the only sound is the clacking of my
keyboard, devilishly producing
the documents that’ll save them money

and time, the “the” and the “love”
that inspire the spiders in my fingers.
At home I read only first chapters
then tear out the rest to mop up spills.

My bed’s stuffed inside the bathroom,
the towel closet filled with my clothes,
a hot plate perilously balancing
on the sink, and when I sleep I hear

the drip of the sink I’m too busy
to fix and the pipes squeezing
the worms of water inside them.
In that lone hour of rest, I dream

of solutions to problems, repairing 
documents thought to be lost in the void.
You rarely show up, except to ferry
reports the shortest path between

two points.  No zig-zags on my heart,
no leisurely looks at the valley below.
I’ve closed the park, broke the tourist
binoculars; you can’t see anything at all.