The clanking and whirring of the machine in the next room
And the muffled shouts of workers telling stories through through their tedious shifts,
Push their way through the dry wall and mix with the ever-ringing office telephone
And the buzz of air-conditioning and my laptop's fan.
These industrial, commercial Monday through Friday sounds only emphasize
the loneliness in me
That waits patiently for the 5 o'clock bell and my return
To the more familiar sounds of our drippy faucet, our broken ice cube maker, and our merengue-loving neighbors
Where I wait for you to come home to me and relieve me of my loneliness.
Too often
I have tried to reinvent
myself
into the various personas
of alternate existences
when all along
There has only been
singularly
me.
This person
fond of typewriters
with nimble fingers across keys
Only ever fully incarnated in the collecting of words
across a page.
There are 1000 poems
trapped inside my fingers
just underneath my fingernails
itchy where I can't scratch
Pushing their way through
finger tips
reaching for paper and pen
or keyboard keys
or even sidewalk chalk
searching for whatever means they can find
to work their way out
