The Tech Center

At 4:15 p.m. the tech center in Denver is abuzz. It isn’t quite the same as it was at 7:30. Instead an insurance agent steadily walks from his office in his grey pin-striped suit. He has fifteen years under his belt; no wife, no kids, and no evening appointments anymore.

A legal secretary passes him on the sidewalk. She too is dressed high-brow; black suit, crisp white blouse, and heels begging to be kicked and strewn by her sofa. She has two kids yearning for their mother to replace their daylong surrogates at pre-K and St. Michael’s Montessori.

Her husband, who isn’t any longer, works as an architect on the other end of the Center. He quietly returns to his high-rise flat in Lodo. His neat, orderly life is peaceful and lonely less every other weekend. One of his five business partners, who is walking with him presently, swings by the apartment on occasion with his twenties-something girlfriend to see if he wants to take in the local jazz scene with them. Even though he hates his third-wheel status he usually agrees to go.

Both men pass a lady in a long, crumpled gown. The dress has no shape or form, and neither does she as she sits holding up a copper sculpture of a long-legged disproportioned man. This man at 4:15 p.m. has no influence on her journaling efforts. Instead her inspiration is mused and fused by everyday people passing by; the insurance agent, legal secretary, architect, financial planner and the like. They strike an esoteric pose in her conscience as they move to the next step, the next task of normality, giving no notice to her or her aim of observation.

A monsoonal rain shower invades the scene and all pop open their man-made mushrooms to protect their suits, their blouses, their hair, their writing pad. Just like the poet, their protection warrants no thought, no appreciation of source or function. Instead it’s just an added cog to the wheel; complacent and ever-so important in the corporate routine of the day.