July 1st. Poem One.
Voices at Work / by Risa Denenberg
Another meltdown Monday, server on work stoppage.
Ghost files, IT says. What are ghost files? Busted
by chronic anger and this puny suck-hole problem,
my psyche is trawled through chart after chart of distortions.
Mundane failings clench my jaw, an infarction on a day
when having time to eat lunch might save me, but only
churns out another faultfinder in the midst. I manage a team
of worrywarts; my voice becomes tinier and tinnier —
so lilliputian, it nearly disappears. Memory is shredded
in the storeroom. If there is a divine plan (and who’s to say
there’s not?) forsythia bloom to pull us through the gloom of winter,
only to plop us into the fry-burn of sun. Even God wants us to die.
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