"addressee" poems - Hello Poetry

Three days, is what the HR rep said, somewhat sheepishly, As if she was fully aware that boxing up one’s grief In a span of a few dozen hours Is a matter of wishful thinking And certainly she sympathizes (Indeed, as she speaks, She spreads her hands in such a way As you half expect doves to come forth in full flight) Empathy being their stock in trade, But the law and the handbook say three days, And then you need to have your head ******* back on and looking forward. Eventually, the mail brings fewer envelopes Marked with embossed flowers And subdued and tasteful stamps, The usual flow of solicitous inquiries, Pre-stamped and pre-sorted, Inquiring as to your credit needs, The condition of your windows and siding, Resumes apace, and more than once, In fits of inappropriate black humor and frustration, You scribble, in bold thick strokes of a marker, The addressee no longer resides at this location. You return to nine-to-five, Though your ghosts keep their own hours, Stopping by to visit on their own schedule alone, Prompted by the tiniest of things: The dog scampering to its feet in a hurry, As if someone was at the door, The discovery of a long-unused pitching wedge Standing expectantly in the back of the closet, A song from long ago which was beloved When you lived in the pairing mandated by Noah Before you entered the shadow world of ones and nones. Sometimes you give into the giddy madness, And rise to waltz around the room, Careening about unsteadily, clumsily As you have yet to completely master The difference in weight shift and distribution That is required of a solo act. The timing of these visitations Often disrupts your schedule and sleep patterns, And you think that perhaps tomorrow you’ll call in.

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Nov 28, 2017

Nov 28, 2017 at 10:38 AM UTC

wk-kortas

sick day

Three days, is what the HR rep said, somewhat sheepishly, As if she was fully aware that boxing up one’s grief In a span of a few dozen hours Is a matter of wishful thinking And certainly she sympathizes (Indeed, as she speaks, She spreads her hands in such a way As you half expect doves to come forth in full flight) Empathy being their stock in trade, But the law and the handbook say three days, And then you need to have your head ******* back on and looking forward. Eventually, the mail brings fewer envelopes Marked with embossed flowers And subdued and tasteful stamps, The usual flow of solicitous inquiries, Pre-stamped and pre-sorted, Inquiring as to your credit needs, The condition of your windows and siding, Resumes apace, and more than once, In fits of inappropriate black humor and frustration, You scribble, in bold thick strokes of a marker, The addressee no longer resides at this location. You return to nine-to-five, Though your ghosts keep their own hours, Stopping by to visit on their own schedule alone, Prompted by the tiniest of things: The dog scampering to its feet in a hurry, As if someone was at the door, The discovery of a long-unused pitching wedge Standing expectantly in the back of the closet, A song from long ago which was beloved When you lived in the pairing mandated by Noah Before you entered the shadow world of ones and nones. Sometimes you give into the giddy madness, And rise to waltz around the room, Careening about unsteadily, clumsily As you have yet to completely master The difference in weight shift and distribution That is required of a solo act. The timing of these visitations Often disrupts your schedule and sleep patterns, And you think that perhaps tomorrow you’ll call in.