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The Perfect Desk Job
I
think that my ideal career
would involve
a desk on a rooftop,
an infinite supply
of blank pages,
an infinite supply
of blank days
and blue sky,
and a pen
that, like a fountain, recycles its ink.
It would not be
Monday to Friday,
9 to 5,
but rather I would always be
on the clock;
I would always be scribbling words
or seeing faces in the clouds.
If I wrote something worthwhile,
I would fold it
into a paper airplane,
and toss it
from the rooftop
straight to you.
I would bring a smile to your face,
and you would refold my airplane
back into a square,
a neatly-angled container
where you caught a piece of happiness,
and you held it in your hands,
let it roll over you
like the wind.
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The
Caffeine Nation
I
watch while she pretends
to fall asleep. I watch
while she sneaks out into the night,
armed with cigarettes
and just enough change
for coffee.
She goes into office buildings
and walks naked
through their empty corridors,
through their silent oppressive air.
She escapes the arms
of the normal digital sleep,
and she stands at the windows,
her hands pressed against the glass,
and she looks down at the dark streets
where, in a handful of hours,
the caffeine nation will be in full flight -
running from one lie
into another.
She stands at the windows,
unplugged,
without any voices
echoing through the recesses of her head.
I watch as she searches
for an antidote,
something half-way between beer and coffee,
but she can't fake it.
I'm sober and wide awake,
watching her wrestle the night,
waiting for enough evidence
to make the call.
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