One of my work poems... let me know what you think!
My supervisor whortles the store
with her stick legs. My arms are full
of her suggestions.
I might know what to do.
She gives me pages from her catalog.
There is not enough embroidery. Motivation is no
I twitch the stitches, waiting.
I have learned not to interrupt, at least.
She chatters long fingers, fasioning a ball with
the air. The past is a harbinger of the future.
She is convinced.
Somehow I feel her benefiting.
The recession of her gums, I think. Or perhaps
the Lego® cap of hair, too brown, shiny,
setting snare to my eyes.
I shrug the need for silence, my
shoulders unequal with listening. The future is
a magic hat. Abracadabra, I would take her words,
if only I weren't feeling so managed.