It’s a few minutes from a quarter to five and
You’re wondering how you got here in the first place.
You try to remember last Wednesday and
The Wednesday before the day you were thinking,
‘Next Wednesday, I will think to remember to think of
It’s a quarter ‘til five and
You’re wondering if you would have chosen this if it were
Last Wednesday, many years ago, but of course
That moment, you chose to be
Who you were then as you are choosing, albeit passively, to be
It’s eleven to five and you look around and
The trail of ants crawling along your desk,
Hauling pieces of particle board over tiny thoraces
Stale little morsels from Monday.
Amidst the constant flow, they bump intermittently,
Offering directions, instructions on how, where to go.
They’re all the same. They never asked for anything more or less.
Now a good seven square inch bite has seemed to erode from your desk and
It’s five to five. You offer the unfinished quarter of
Your almond butter sandwich from lunchtime.
It’s a worthy gesture in the spectrum of your capacity to give.
You won’t miss it next Wednesday.
You push your feet against the mutable partition
Supported by file cabinets tangled in wires bundled
Tangled strangling energy no interest in sorting itself out.
You glide across the hard
Plastic protecting the finely woven carpet that still smells like carpet.
You want out the glass, but pleasure is the gaze
It’s as though these buildings always were
Certainly, before any Wednesday you could recall.
It’s as though concrete sludge carved perfect blocks from stone and steel
Strategically sculpting almost perfect cubicles stacked, still standing.
Still glowing little squares shine.
The trail of cabs and buses, lights and wires, pushers and nannies hauling cargo
Some in bellies burning little memories of they
A flurried flow cracking everywhere.
From this distance, the trails have multiple arms and speeds
Abrupt and lingual. They’re all the same now.
They get angry. They say things. They want
Desperately to be beautiful. They want
It’s five past five and there’s a generous chunk of sky missing.
It’s raining and hundreds of Carlas and Juniors and Sisters and Seniors have retired
Toward the vanishing point. Swallowing, swallowed
By sandwiching skyscrapers. You wave at them,
Making sure you remember this
Next Wednesday, when you will find yourself