Two hours too long on the toilet,
reading the latest news about the stars,
I promise myself Iíll 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 Iím fired. My doorís closed,
the only sound is the clacking of my
keyboard, devilishly producing
the documents thatíll save them money
and time, the ďtheĒ and the ďloveĒ
that inspire the spiders in my fingers.
At home I read only first chapters
then tear out the rest to mop up spills.
My bedís 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 Iím 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.
Iíve closed the park, broke the tourist
binoculars; you canít see anything at all.