Monday, November 5, 2012

The Lord's Prayer Pt. 1 - Our Father

And when you pray
Begin this way
Our Father, our Leader
Our Superior Mind
Provider, Comforter
Author of Mankind
Start this way
When you pray
Your life's plan surrender
Cede to Him dominion
Recognize your abject failure
Saved through Son's petition
So when you pray
Begin this way
Our Father

     So, I've decided not to do NaNoWriMo this year. I thought about it, and apparently I'm too excited about seeing Boyfriend in less than forty days, and it's all I can do just to finish my reading goal (which I'm still going to do by the way). But not wanting to be left behind I decided instead to write a poem a day for the month of November. I thought NaPoWriMo was pretty hilarious and original and witty, but I just googled it and there actually IS a NaPoWriMo and it's in April. April IS poetry month, so I guess that shouldn't come as a surprise. So, I guess I'm a few months late, but I've been enjoying it. This poem was from yesterday. It was actually written as a response to the sermon from the week before.

Wednesday, October 31, 2012


Yes, yes, I'm a terrible Blogess for never updating. Here is something I never did anything with, but made because I loved the word "moonglade." It is a word for the reflection of the moon on water, and has nothing to do with WoW no matter what Google might have you believe.

In the promised bath the nightbird
Weeps its tenured song into
Bright patches glittering
In absence of people the silent fish
Talk to one another in bubbles
Creeping up to kiss the moonglade
The mirror moon spreads itself
And through miniature wavelets
Comes together

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

ACTS in the Morning

I , by myself, can't imagine your worth
Father, for this I adore You.
With merely your Word, you redeemed the whole earth
Father, for this I adore You.

So numerous my acts that I shouldn't have done
Father for this, I'm confessing.
And what you've wished me to do, I've left alone
Father for this, I'm confessing.

You manage all, yet have time for me
Father, for this I thank You.
You give us all, everything that we need
Father, for this I thank You.

Lord, make Yourself center of worship and love
Father, I am supplicating
And make my heart willing for Your people to move
Father, I am supplicating.

   I wrote this a couple of years ago, and just recently discovered it. I didn't change anything so you can look at how greatly my poetry has matured (false) since then. I actually still use the ACTS (Adoration. Confession. Thanksgiving. Supplication) structure to pray...oddly enough so does my boyfriend.

Monday, September 10, 2012


We are so set apart it seems
It seems we are only perfect
And no one else could have the things
We have it seems
You’re lovely; every day is sunny
We’re filled with stories and we’re funny
And we’re perfect
And there should be a bazillion bards
Singing our romance across my yard
How could anyone be
As set apart as we?

We are so special it seems
It seems we have each other now
And in the history of the world
There’s never been such a boy and girl
Why hasn’t there been an angel choir
Singing our story and lifting us higher?
You would think there should be poetry
Or even some far off violins
For these amazing happenings
How could anyone be
As special as we?

We are so unique it seems
It seems no one could feel this way
Or everyone would walk around
Dizzy and blinded and upside down
I’m singing out to the planner it seems
The one who took and molded our dreams
Our brash youths and our broken hearts
Making a joyful surprise
In our lives
How could anyone be
As unique as we?

Friday, September 7, 2012

Grace Upon Grace

In all your plans I’ve stood outside
My own way I have tried and tried
Incurious I have slashed my trail
You’ve kept me still inside your will
And now I stand with humbled head
Your grace before me you have spread
For every time I’ve questioned you
I find for me a gift or two
This ever present giving Lord
I still refuse to trust His word
And when He still my savior is
I’m shamed inside this present bliss
I fear I’ll never learn that you
My story wrote, you’ll see me through
Till the day I fully understand
Face to face in distant land

Fun with couplets. I'm experimenting more with rhyme these days. I personally think it sounds a bit like Dr. Seuss, but we'll see. One of the issues I'm having is the fact that I'm speaking of God in both 2nd and 3rd person. Obviously I couldn't consistently keep it one way because of the rhyme scheme. Anyway, yup...that's what I was messing with today.

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Why Could We Not Cast It Out (Mark 9)

Keep me ever in mind of my nature
An extended arm, no less, a finger
A dust mote from your fingernail
Settling down dispensing a flavor of you
A shining from inside me
Leavings of your work
Keep me ever grateful for your breath
In my lungs, your tempo in my heart
Your Spirit infusing my spirit
And any attractions I offer, outside myself
Minute shards of glory in my speech
Keep me humble, keep me small
So that your raising me on the last day
Be full more miraculous

   Sunday's sermon was on the demon possessed boy the disciples couldn't heal. Pastor suggested that perhaps the disciples couldn't heal because they somehow slipped under the impression that they could heal. To God ever be the glory.

Friday, August 24, 2012

Going Home

I was looking at our shadows
On the way home
The words you spoke swam
Before my eyes
Like that set apart feeling
I often feel now
Thinking I am part of a whole
I was thinking of our history
And re-writing you into my life
Our shadows went before us
Like my future
Like our past
And things once said in jest
Becoming real
Skeletons of love clad now in flesh
Made to dance before our eyes
Like shadows
And I think there was a moon
But I didn’t see it and I heard nothing
I felt a thousand things
All too foreign to pass my lips
Pondering in my heart
I was looking at our shadows
They looked like comfort
They looked like home

   Wow guys, look a post! I figured it might be about time. ;-) Yes, it's for John. I am going to warn you now that anything that isn't overtly about nature or God is going to most likely be for John. What can I say? He's a special guy.

Friday, July 27, 2012


There were we looking into the lightness
The words were tumbling to my surprise
And my hands were shaking
And my thighs were shaking
I feel like I might be falling for you
Like I felt like falling
When you told me you’d fallen
You looked suddenly different
But the same dear face
I find that I can’t quite meet your eyes
For the very first time
And something seems to let go
In my stomach
Still I reach for doubts and demons
Because I do that, but they're gone
Peace given me by grace is roiling
But I want this
And there seems to be a lightness
That I hadn't seen before
But the wall I built in brashness
Of blind and foolish knowing
Is beginning to crack in the light
From the next table and
What about you? And What about you?
And I asked you if you were being funny
And I felt strange
And I felt light
Pouring from other tables, other talkers
Other graspings for love in the new
And we in our comfort are beginning here
Your words in my ear
And I can’t believe you just said that
And I can’t believe we haven’t done this before
This night of all times, in all places
I’m glad it was you
I’m glad it was me 

*for John*

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

Colorado Shooting

For it is not great horror
But great grace
That every night
Is not as dark
As that night in Colorado
For in every heart
The war, the beating
The struggle against the maker
And every body the wrathful skeleton
The horror lies deeper in the garden
The grace is that the night
Is not so dark
As it seems

This is my very first ever current events poem. I don't like writing them because they always seem too soon. 

Friday, July 13, 2012

The Laziest Post

   What I'm about to do is actually quite reprehensible. I needed to post something and I have a few things in the works right now, but none to the point where I'm ok with putting them up, so I decided to take something very far from being done and posting it anyway. I actually have no intention of returning to this story, but I might because I started it in order to entertain my friend Jasmine one day. I actually wrote this strange "fairy tale" over chat and never ended up finishing it. So, Jasmine, this post (in all its laziness) is dedicated to you.

    Once upon a time there was a girl who wanted more from life. One day a magic mouse appeared to her in the late afternoon, and asked if she wanted a man
     She eagerly agreed and the mouse set off to a far off land where fairies and good men and other mythical creatures are made. Pretty soon he returned with a fine specimen.
     The girl looked him over and realized that he was perfect, but sadly he was under a spell that made him a narcoleptic.
     "There's only one cure" the magical mouse squeaked, “and it's cocoa!”
     The girl exclaimed: "Why, I have cocoa here on my desk!"
     "No no!" the mouse furiously said, "That is fake must get the real deal from the cocoa mines of Bora Bora"
     The girl immediately stashed the man under her desk and booked a plane ticket to Bora Bora
     Within five hours and a lot of money....she was on a plane between two rather gruff looking fat men who made her uncomfortable by snoring ALL the way to Bora Bora.
     When it was finally time to deboard she stepped lightly off the plane and asked the first person she saw, in a very loud and very slow pronunciation and furious hand gestures that one should always use in a foreign country, “WHIIIICH WAAAY TOO THE COCOA MIIINES?”
     Which in Bora Bornese actually means: How do you find your mother?
      "I find her well" the first person replied, a little confused by this stranger asking him such a personal question. Unfortunately in Bora Bornese I find her well sounds an awful lot like..."Go toward those scary looking mountains and climb them. In the cave at the top you will find a tree guarded by three hideous witches you can only kill by spitting on them. On the tree you will find a map to the cocoa mines"
     The girl smiled broadly and clapped the first person on his shoulder, “Thanks!” she said. Which in Bora Bornese means simply, Mangoes.
     The First Person gazed after the girl as she walked away wondering what sort of odd person had come to his country and what this portended for the future. As it turns out it portended absolutely nothing. The First Person went on and married a young woman from his village. Her dowry included six chickens and a basket of breadfruit. Unfortunately it also meant her aunt moved in next door and he spent the rest of his life asking her aunt’s permission to go out with the guys for beers at the local pub.

    Meanwhile the girl made her way up the scary looking mountains. She climbed a whole three weeks sustained mainly by a box of chocolates and strange tubers that grew from the side of the mountains which strangely tasted like all of her favorite foods. She climbed so long she began to think about the man under her desk and wonder if he was really worth all of this effort. Eventually, she did get to the cave at the top.
    Inside, just as the First Person had said, there was a tree guarded by three hideous witches. They were so hideous the girl couldn’t bear to look at them and thus could not describe exactly what they looked like to this author. The first witch spoke “Who goes there!” she croaked in a surprisingly high voice.
     “It’s uhhh…just a girl” the girl replied.
     The second witch spoke, “We aren’t blind, ya know.” The second witch had a curiously Minnesotan accent.
     “I’d like to see that map,” the girl ventured on
     The third witch intoned in a rather pleasant voice “Well, we can’t just give it to you.”
     There was an uncomfortable pause while the witches eyed the girl, and she eyed the ground for fear of looking at the hideous exteriors of the witches. “Well, I’m not sure where we go from here,” the girl finally said. The witches conferred with one another and finally pushed the third witch forward. “You’ve got to do three impossible tasks for us,” she intoned melodiously.
     “Look,” the girl said with not a little frustration, “I’ve got this man under my desk at work and he needs some cocoa from the cocoa mines of Bora Bora and I just need to know how to get there. I don’t like the guy enough to do impossible tasks for him.”
     Another uncomfortable pause filled the cave. Eventually the first witch croaked, “How about possible ones then?”
     “Oh I guess,” the girl assented.
     The first witch went first, which seemed numerically pleasing. “I’d like a strand of your hair,” she said.
     “And I would like you to stand on your right foot as long as you can,” the second witch said, with a hearty Midwestern chuckle.
     “And I,” said the third witch in a voice like soft velvety paws reaching up to gently bat at your face in a clawless manner, “would like you to eat this whole basket of cherries.” She set a rather large basket of cherries in front of the girl.
     The girl dutifully plucked out a strand of her hair and gave it to the first witch, who immediately swallowed it to everyone’s extreme embarrassment. Then she stood on her right food for a very long time, till she eventually fell down to everyone’s amusement. Lastly she picked up the basket of cherries and everyone settled in for a long night of stone spitting and abdominal discomfort. The girl was down to the last three cherries. "I bet I can spit out the stones of all three at once," she called in a voice that dared the three witches to bet against this statement.
     "Not possible," squealed the first witch. Only her voice was so high pitched only a dog a long way off in Saudi Arabia heard it and began jigging right there on the spot, causing his name to go down in dog history as a first class dancer and a dog of passion.
     "Oh ya know," the second witch intoned nasally, "I'm not so sure that's possible. I had a cousin who tried too and he spit 'em all the way to Cheboygan where they lodged in the eye of a wandering Michigan state fan. We just chuckled about that for ages, but it could be dangerous, ya know."
     "Prove it," the third witch fluttered in her pleasant way.
    The girl put all three cherries in her mouth, took the time to angle each stone and spit with all her might. "Pop!" Went the first stone on the second witch, which was not very numerically pleasing. And "Pop!" went the the second stone on the third witch, which was just annoying. And again "Pop!" went the last stone on the first witch, which shouldn't really come as a surprise. Too late the girl remembered the words of the First Person when he said you could kill the witches by spitting on them. Fearing for the lives of her new friends who she still couldn't look at due to their hideous persons, she ran to their sides. "Are you hurt!?" she called out?  
     "Well, it's just a stone, girl," the first witch creaked like an aged rocking chair. 
     "But the First Person said that I would kill you by spitting on you!" The girl exclaimed still a little shaken. 
     "Did he now?" the second witch chuckled, "Perhaps he was speaking Bora-Bornese, in which case he might have been telling you he found his mother well."
     The girl looked at the witch for a long time, but instead of pursuing what she considered to be a fruitless conversation, she instead said, "Might I have a look at that map? I have done your possible tasks by now."
     "Yes, I suppose you may," trilled the third witch and they all stepped aside so she could sidle up the the tree.

Tuesday, July 3, 2012

Basketball and Our Petty Jealousies

Bent with the silvered knowledge of fifteen years
Together we proclaimed the prophecy
In the swagger of our sophistication
We handed down the theory
That if gas reached three dollars a gallon
People would just stop driving
There and then; only you were so tall
Mighty in your sullenness
When all that mattered was basketball and
Our petty jealousies
I actually can’t recall a word you ever spoke
And what now when our hearts still dance
To the same distant tribal drumbeat
When indeed our poetry walks hand in hand
Despite the ponderous decade sitting between us
You are at the touch of my finger-tips
But I hesitate to fall back to the time
When all that mattered was basketball and
Our petty jealousies

    This is kind of what I think about a childhood crush (such a stupid word) now that I'm old and wise (*ahem*). Especially ones whose blog you stumble across in a strange sequence of events. Fun stuff!

Friday, June 15, 2012

Intolerable Compliment: A Book Poem

Divine molder of persons
Blessed cleanser of stains
You loved me into loveliness
And these fires under my eyes
And across my back
Are gifts you’ve given
The love that will not let me go
Great straightener of crooked lines
Holy un-breaker
Break down even the idols I’ve wrapped my heart around
And when you wound, I thank you.
For by your power and grace you weep for my weeping
Powerful scribe of my sorrows
Amazing bottler of my tears
For in and around and after pain
Blossoms unconventional joy unbridled
Too lovely for this sinner, too bright
Too often I’ve wished for love diminished
Mighty maker of magnificence
Even in this corpse
Even in my deadness
Sweet savior if you must, mend me
Refine me till the day I kneel before you
And love seen through dark glass
Made clear before my face

   I wrote this poem in response to chapter three of C.S. Lewis's The Problem of Pain. I am currently reading that book with a friend from Virginia and we are sharing our thoughts and feelings and analyzings and musings and speculations on our shared blog. You should check us out. After we finish The Problem of Pain we'll be reading A Grief Observed (also by Mr. Lewis), to get the emotional and pastoral side of suffering instead of the theological and philosophical aspects of it. 

Tuesday, June 12, 2012


Carrie should skip this because she doesn't like reading about heat. ;-)

I welcome in the wet heat
And it’s a jungle out there
I even hear the monkeys
Perhaps this unopened door
Has hid the rainforest all along
The mugginess like a blanket
Softening the wind song
Disturbing the insects
Making us all feel foreign
The glass door is cracked
And jungle winds have entered
Bringing a wasp and the biggest fly
I’ve ever seen in the jungle
The air so full of moisture
It feels like lies
The windows sweat despite the open door
Out of which the monkeys call
No other creature makes this sound
If I’m silent I feel drumbeats
I can even hear the wetness

Monday, June 11, 2012

To the Unnamed Atheist

Whispers of intentional disrepair
Lawless effigies of science
Set up in stalwart un-trustworthiness 
Cling here
Because the storm is a’coming
But they won’t save you
Doubt floods your mind and you wonder
Whether your accusings of a closed mind
Point back at you with the same fingers
You jab in the eyes of the faithful
You are blind
In your whisperings, your musings
In the garden
Did God really say
Did God really
Did God
Create this world just to fall into disrepair
You’ve repaired his world in your image
His son recast in your own womb
And in his place you’ve raised stones and grass and atoms and
A vacuum
Nature and nature’s God abhors this

Friday, June 1, 2012

Bird Fight

And her feathers were ruffled before
So I stared into middle distance
I’ve been painted here once or twice
Over this bustling street
Straight down is the thrill
Of rushing past a moving car
I sneak a peek over my wingblade
Serene and confidant that I will never take flight
She preens and pretends
Two can play at this game
And I watch the passing road monsters
Below our twig-like feet

   I drove under a street lamp the other day with two birds on it completely ignoring one another. It was hilarious. Optimistic Existentialist might find this pretty funny. 
   Birds come up often in what I write, but this is not the first failed bird-romance I've ever written. This one was. 

Wednesday, May 30, 2012

A Limerick for Venice - A Book Poem

There once was a lawyer named Felice
Prosecuting on behalf of the Fenice
But the ones he thought guilty
Were considerably wealthy
And prominent members of Venice

    This happened when I was reading John Berendt's The City of Fallen Angels and realized how similar all those names looked on paper. Now, please don't tell me you are an Italian speaker and those aren't pronounced the same. I have a sneaking suspicion of that already...just enjoy it. 
     As background The Fenice was an old opera building that was destroyed by fire in the late 1990s. Felice was the lawyer assigned to the task of prosecuting who was responsible for the fire. Clearly.

Monday, May 21, 2012

Western Bird

Just outside the Evergreens
And I heard
The Western Bird
The one before the showdowns
I’m prepared to meet this Friday
Fully knowing
I’ve burnt two pieces of expensive toast
The Western Bird
Calls twice
For silence
And my shoes are wet.

Here is a little something I messed with a few weeks ago. I can't do much else with it.

Friday, May 18, 2012


That you never hear when our hearts cease to beat
That at the end you think only of the dark recesses of Africa
Where he spills his self-sanctified blood and sweat
And our tears hit the pavement, yet
You won’t hear us when the walls crumble
The choice is deep and long and wide
Too far the chasm, too broke the heart
The beat of lashes on skin for this the public reckoning
And all is put to rights at the sunset
Of this world
Intended: That the weight of this sacrifice is heavy on your shoulders

Thursday, May 17, 2012

Earth Circus: A Book Poem

Oh, the riotous earth
The ever spinning circle of circuses
Duck under your special tent
And find cavorting there
A living thing
A Leaf
An Amoeba
A Finch
And then when you can no longer
Keep in your adulations
Of the master of the circus
Shout to him Hosannah
And Praises and find His hands
In everything
His fingerprints on your heart
Leaping for the riotous earth
The jumbling circus performers
Be dazzled
By robins gorging and growing
And flying away.

Inspired by Annie Dillard's American Childhood

Thursday, May 10, 2012

Morning #4

The morning is a magic space
Before the work, beginnings transcend
And each grass blade holds forth a single water jewel
To sparkle in the glow of sun warrior
Chasing the after-chill of night
There is silence to break your heart
And peace to heal up again
And in all you whisper gratitude
You are the only person this morning is for
This present of the present soaks your senses

Tuesday, March 20, 2012

Long Buried

You were the first to graft poetry under my skin

And I’ve separated eight years from myself

I cut my teeth on you and you taught me the proper way to mourn

And now I see you at the end of the aisle

Her hand clasped in yours and your perfect smile

Shining like you really mean it

And what I feel is not the old feelings I once had

It’s the knowledge that they are gone.

For this I am grateful, but perhaps a little more empty

Than yesterday

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

In Mystic Sweet

Today I heard the old man’s voice

He’s been dead for twenty-five years

Slain under prayerful parents’ hands

The light of Christ found my heart

While it was still developing space

Long before the world began

My name was written in the book

And I was birthed beneath His shadow

Beneath His spotlessness, His blood

And He drew sword and killed the old man

Killed the death that would destroy me

But still the vestigial murmurings

Deep within me, I still fight

Now I have the living spirit, now I’m able

I no longer bear the chains

But while this fallen time and fallen world

Remain, I’m fighting

And today I heard his voice

He whispered one lie

“Did God really say” he said

And I failed to reach for promises

And I failed to sing the truth out

And I failed to glorify Him

And I failed…in general

So, now I take this bread, this wine

Reminding you of reminding me

Accept His perfection, again.

Accept His punishment, again.

Forgive my failure to fight, again.

This is all I have, for now

Until the dead and dying old man

Finally taken from my shoulders

Then I’ll see with brighter colors

And I’ll feast with you that day.

Monday, March 12, 2012

The Daffodils

Look there is one fallen victim

Winter feared her early rising

Feared being mocked by yellow silence

This soldier has bent forward

Petals now to pavement under

Wind and rain’s relentless driving

She sees nothing, not her glory

Not her yellow, not the seasons

Her back beaten she’s forgotten

Why she’s here to light the darkness

Still her petals face the sidewalk

Still she kisses black and grey

Till the yellow turns with friction

Back to brown to fade away.

I fear she’ll never look up

Never assert her delicacy

These sentinels of spring

Grown to give us hope in darkness

This one degraded flower

Cannot stop the resurrection

And around the dead of winter

Rings a colorful return

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

I Pass You The Ball

We, equally transparent

Handing fragmented thoughts

Back and forth over my bags

We, equally awkward

I swallowing doubts and demons

You, suppressing comparisons

We, equally tongue-tied

By too many miles and

Too many unspoken words

I pass you the ball

Wednesday, February 15, 2012


We are one, this strange man across time and I

We see the arid lands and the poppies

They way they were meant to be seen

The way God planted them

The solitude in desert magic and soft cool of distant mountains

The words wrap my heart

In a nostalgic seeming fog

And the fog is always just a little further off

Friday, February 10, 2012

Encounter in the Sauna

I learned her name
After I heard her favorite story
Of when the darkness fell
We were so lucky she says
So lucky
And it's good to have candles
She lay supine
On wood burning stoves and creeks running downhill
I cooked everything she said
We were so lucky she said I made stew
My toe finds a knothole and I concentrate
On not laughing
On not saying "I don't know you
But you aren't lucky
You are planned"
She laughs and says, "I just thought, 'oh my god we are so lucky.'"
Your God indeed I think
Your God indeed

Thursday, February 9, 2012


Is beauty constant?
"You just don't know what's in style"
He scoffs absolutes

Yeah, it's a haiku.
And I love TOMS the mission, but why do they have to make such ugly shoes?

Monday, January 30, 2012

The Scarf That Launched a Thousand Ships

I was all pretense and bravado
As I pushed the heavy door in
Unclosing the dim-lighting and wood-muffled brewery sounds
I saw a group of beautiful people and hesitated
Terrified you'd be among them
When I finally saw you standing casually behind the bar
Like you belonged in every moment
My heart did not race, or skip, or somersault
Rather expanded, to take in your entirety
Your myth and your manhood
And the pub grew people-less as I walked warm to you
Our mundane conversation, fell on my head
And flowed like Aaron's oil
Convincing me I was set apart and chosen
And in a way, as we complacently communicated
Shoulder-to-shoulder, I was.

A lot of my poetry does not make it to the blog, being a mite too personal. This one was almost a casualty of my caution. It's actually been on hold for almost a year.

Also, a note on housekeeping: My other blog has recently suffered a url change. It's a url that is insufferably long. Ready? I know, I know! It's only a placeholder till I can find a better one.
I know not a lot of you who read this one care to read the other, and that is fine, but I do know that some people were experiencing trouble accessing the other due to the url change. This was the only way I knew to publicize what the issue could be. So, if you read my other blog and can't seem to access it for some reason, that is the reason. If you don't, just disregard this message.

Friday, January 27, 2012


Yesterday was my brother's birthday. He turned 21. You should all follow his blog and wish him happy (late) birthday. He's a poet too.

Thursday, January 26, 2012

A Mother's Love

This broken world is dripping darkness
Satan covers all our hands
Our mouths can only bleat to Christ
And weep in hope against the fear
There are bigger things and deeper things
And ugly poured in all the cracks
But glimpses of love break free
Dim appearances of final peace
She notices his teeth
Of all the people dying and the screaming and the pain
She notices his teeth are shifting slightly
And ponders in her heart what to do
For her son
This seeming petty trial
Not really so silly when you realize
How deep and dizzy disconcerting
Mothers' eyes
Watch their children
Watch their teeth
Their souls
And they worry against the darkness
Dripping down their hearts
And they cry and turn to Jesus
Yet they hope against the fear
There is beauty in this watching
She, the only one who notices
His teeth

Thursday, January 19, 2012


O leave me alone with my soul
Man of the misplaced dreams
I'm silencing laughter and I think
Angel Investor sounds lovely
I'm searching three pairs of eyes
Their faces so present
Almost as if they really care
And I'm waiting for someone to drop the joke
And I nod when they nod
And I arrange my face to
Concern when a man finds a bag
One shade lighter than the last bag
And the CTQs and SAPs and SKUs and PLMs
And I'm aware she's wearing TOMS
I'm aware the ceramic horses on the bookshelves are hideous
I'm aware that her ring looks like Easter frosting
I press my foot into the conference table to stay here
Stay present, stay aware
Wanting to scream
Who cares

Something my brain insisted on putting together during a conference at work. Curse you, brain.