Poem During Work

by Steven J. Serafiani

Mindless.
I just want to go home, drink wine and sit in
my underwear at my olivetti;
write.
Cause right now I have to put up with
mindless work in a cubicle where the
fluorescent bulbs above cloud my head, dim my eyes, dim my being.
Out for a smoke,
“At least the wind died down,” coworker says,
smile and reply mindless meteorology. I don’t care.
I just want to write in my underwear and drink red and fantasize about
all the beautiful birds that I have
yet to screw.

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