Paperwork stacking up
but mid afternoon
when I am meant to attend a meeting,
our thoughts entwine
and I know
I will get nothing done.
Minutes will slip through our fingers,
the sun rush down among words never said.
I turn my head toward the window,
darkness nestles itself within the fading light,
bodies inside a village skyline,
up above, the moon pushes through.
The pencil woodchips in my mouth
resettle me among the piles of files.
I spot Kavanagh's untidy handwriting:
Now there's someone to respect;
three jobs, a tiny house, too many mouths,
and now at loggerheads with the cops over something laughable.
Last week, I asked him how he does it, how he finds
time to breathe, to eat, to sleep, to rest,
how he can
from inside the sticky muck
enquire about whomever is in front of him.
It's easy,
he told me,
floating inside the glow and the twinkle
eating them,
and sleeping there.
I keep telling myself that I have no idea
what he is talking about and
navel-gaze
in the presence of good people and great.
And yet
so very often
a light's whisp, a whisper between us
so faint
so hushed
drowns our frowns
and shushes the trash,
times we get up and give over.
On the bus, I loosen my scarf
and think that being tired is kind of nice
and soothing
and here you are again.
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