Notes About The Poem

File Number

File Number

364 was especially hard to deal with today. 
The worker made a check in the empty box. 
She used red ink. 

Wife beater, 
drinker, 
abuser, 
low-life scum. 
There were... more than one, 
of each and a mix of all. 
Spices for a bad recipe. 

Too many files for one night, 
one day, 
one week, 
one month, 
one year...
one lifetime!

The young woman stopped at the corner. 
Looked both ways. 
No one around. 
She turned...
and droved north. 
Three miles. 
Two miles. 
Home. 

A big place with lots of space. 
Gardening, and animals. 
A gentle spirit, 
to unwind the unkind. 
Stopped the car. 
Got out. 
Opened the trunk, 
and smiled. 

Potatoes, 
tomatoes, 
Rummy cube at night, 
again and again with such delight. 
Numbers on paper meant...
very little to anyone. 
No one cared or stared. 
But others would be ... 
happier and well-fed.

analogybutterflycorruptioncreationinspirationnarrative

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