i pull in to work
pour in the door like a refugee
fumble in my bag for a
microchipped key fob.
it lets me in the third entrance,
slurring curses that reverb in the hall.
i stumble to my desk, clock in
with my computerized time card
and make my way to the coffee pot.
it always has this smirk, like it knows
it's my saving grace.
i hate the coffee pot for that.
i hate the coffee pot.
insert earphones
High Violet by The National.
sounds penetrate my ears and swirl
in my head,
sending sparks from the microchip
situated just behind my eyes
that tells me there are only grades and work
and television and pin-up girls.
monday morning, i will file a complaint against
myself
i need truth through camera lens
i need honesty
i need deeper meaning
a drunk girl kissed me under gilded mistletoe
once
when i was 16.
i need more than that.