In the office, there is gloom
as though a storm looms,
which suits our nature.
As hack illusionists, we double-click,
conjure electronic blue blips,
symbols of wealth in primitive times.

I need this custom report for a client
and Mary speaks a magic language.
With coffee rings, an Alanon brochure,
paper stratum, a dust webbed dream-catcher,
her cubicle is covered in eccentric disarray.
The backrest of the guest-chair
has snagged a long black hair, so
I lean forward, elbows on knees.
Mary looks to the ceiling, formulates,
then click-a-clicks grime coated keys,
blackest on the E.

We have an understanding,
so matter of fact, she begins,
"I was raised by an alcoholic, I
married an alcoholic, and I will die
at the hand of an alcoholic."

I confess,
"Eternal nothingness
is my greatest fear."

Mary grabs it and goes,
"Death will be the deadest sleep
on the darkest night. Sensory silence.
No pain, no pain..."

When Mary has finished,
I return to my cubicle, but
can't forget what she has said.
I don't want any sensory silence.
I want to climb to the rooftop,
shoot up like a bottle rocket, ecstatic,
when I explode in a sensory shower of
sparkles, high above, in blue heaven.

03/31/2005

Posted on 04/01/2005
Copyright © 2024 David Hill