The work is pelting in sleet drops
against my cubicle window.
I type feverishly, yet not so fast
I know that "get this done right away"
is only eminent but not meaningful.
Chatter and interruptions send
my mind into a dizzying array of direction,
and those streams of thought
leave papers and projects
scattered and strewn
and my boss yells at me with a purplish glow
and my coffee cup has long been dry
and the work continues to pelt.
Poetry is that bit of milk chocolate
dissolving in my mouth
with lips gently closed.
eyes gently closed.
with mind gently closed.
with work temporarily closed.
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