The working day is blue shirts and lies,
twelve last cigarettes, the balancing
of SMS from the powerful women who
know me. What are your plans later?

What are my plans? In the evening,
a globe I constructed from puzzle
pieces sits in my beggar's hands.
One day, they will be large enough
to cage it, but not yet. It's not time.
There is a cave-in exactly where I
next want to go. It's okay.

What are my plans? The rest of it.