Bad Day at Work

This is not the end.

The slip-sticky hands of “what did I do”

the churn: “I have to,” the scream: “I shouldn’t have”

the velveteen whisper “it’s fine in the end.”

This is not the end. 

We will see each other one year from now.

We will see each other ten years from now.

It will be different.

We don't know who will die.

At work we cosplay our ancestors,

making our peace with the whims of the king.

Sneaking suspicions “this isn’t real”

it’s a fight for our lives,

the stupidest part of them,

but it's not the end.

In the sculpture garden each stone was carefully chosen.

I am no stone. I am not chosen.

I blew in like a truck horn,

spoiling the peace,

not even really there.

The peace is serving no one.

Sanctuary. 

A sanctuary is inherently political,

It hides the fugitive. 

Sanctuary invites a fight.

I take sanctuary in my family.

We want to fight.

We are hidden.