There’s no poetry in my office.
It is ten feet by ten feet, a tight pack
Of four places – for me and another
And two love-birds that coo elsewhere.
Open windows face the shut door.
Two nameless trees wait for me
To hop on, to climb, to descent, to go
Somewhere, anywhere, but I stay.
I watch the ants perfect a straight march.
I have named the spider in the left corner.
There is plenty to do till the other arrives.
Then, I put on a busy show of being clever.
The other opens my shut door,
Standing there, quietly waiting
For me, to move, remove, my feet,
Post siesta, from the other's chair.
I glare and stare and challenge.
But, it is a duel the other refuses
With a bloody smile in those eyes,
Those eyes could see, really, see.
I could, if I stretch my arms,
Knock the other down, or touch.
When the other cried, close by,
I did not touch. I am not that kind.
