I wrote this poem at work, either on my break or during a slow point in the day in between articles. I have a nice big window next to my desk, but unfortunately I can’t see anything except the sky. It’s better than no light at all, so I can’t complain.


I see nothing
but the clouds and tops
of buildings and trees,
the sun, moving from east
to west in a south-facing
window with a winter breeze.

My field of view,
limited to nothing more than
seagulls flying over Union Turnpike.
Not even the fluorescent light,
bright white, can save itself
to the energy of life, drowning
everything in sight.

Without the sun and sky,
I try to not imagine
my desk as something more
than where I must work,
and the walls nothing more than
iron bars, and a guard behind me
watching every move.



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