Fire at the office

I was not paying attention at work.
I was reading your latest messages,
holding in laughs,
reeling in the goofy girlish grins
that would give me away to my co-workers,
too ready to gossip about my fall in productivity.

And that’s when I smelled the smoke.

I could see the flames erupting like a realization all around me.
I could see you, burning my life away, one fax cover at a time,
one photocopy after another going up in sparks.

Fire at the office, shouldn’t we evacuate?

No. Let it burn the printers to a crisp,
melt the staplers into disfigured puddles,
sizzle and pop the wires and light bulbs,
the fuck have these florescents ever done for me, anyway?
What have they ever done for anyone?

compared to what you’ve done for me,

Compared to the bright little light
of your words on my phone.



Despite being a small girl
with small hands

I don’t hold my coffee mug
by the handle but rather, firmly

with a flat palm against hot ceramic,
burning fingers tensed all the way to elbow,
metacarpal tendons shaking slightly,
pursed lips

sipping slowly, the coffee, black and scalding, the handle rendered
a useless decorative buttress.

Am I not afraid of dropping a hot mug of coffee on my feet?
A small-handed girl in a big-mug world,
does it not burn, sweetie?

Lips un-pursing, I smile cooly.