Published in Coconut

From nine to six I watch airplanes descend

I collate, I make coffee, I staple

Its my job to walk from workspace to workspace

No one has ever mistaken me for a bird

We ride an elevator to the roof to smoke  

Memos suggest that we delete wayward narratives

Keyboards rustle like Balinese mallets

Much of the mass of the universe is toner

After fifty copies of my eyes I can finally see

And whats a mask but a sieve for numbers

I spend lunch with the insignia catalogue

The Old Glory near the helipad is at half-mast  

The Brainteaser has troubles, too, I guess

Were not dreaming; we just cant work our lids

Memos urge me to cease feeding mice

And then a fly exits the ointment, makes tracks

Is someone famous dead or just history?  

After lunch I wrap my cape around my face

I stop at each station, point, smile, ask: your kid?

Someone yells eggbeater! and we make haste

last updated Tuesday, June 06, 2006 @ 6:34 PM