Work Poem - circa 2004

i couldn’t write a poem now if i tried.

i just got work and i got worky things to do

like make a sandwich and log onto instant messenger

and for those of you in the future 

who don’t know what instant messenger is,

it’s this thing where people type to each 

other through their computers,

and i waste countless hours a day doing it, talking 

to my brother about bullshit

or my girlfriend sometimes all sexy and 

inappropriate for the workplace

or friends on the east coast.

anyway,  i already started doing that and now

i got to check email, again, for future people, it’s mail 

sent from computer to computer, and plus i got to make

a goddamn sandwich.

oh, and there’s my girlfriend sending me a message: how’s work going?

well you know, going is the wrong word cause it’s not going at all,

and now i got this thing that i’m typing that’s anything but a poem

but i stuff it in that category anyway 'cause i can

and the question now is turkey or roast beef

or wait

maybe that’s the wrong question. maybe 

the question should be

why am i at this desk?  sitting 

next to this cunt?  starving but 

not getting 

up? 

still typing?  jesus.  

i think it’s time for my break.  if only i still smoked during

the day you know i’d be doing that 

but instead i kill myself in other,

more boring ways.  sometimes 

i use the handicapped stall in the bathroom.

fuck it.  the way i see it, it’s brighter, more spacious. the regular stall is cramped

and dark and hot and everyone who comes in can see your shoes and

pity you while they pee and wash their hands and leave, while you’re stuck

there, finally alone again with your magazine, protective paper sticking to 

your under-legs, while the toilet paper dangles there, waiting 

to make itself useful.