Fugue
I’ve lived here my whole life.
I work here.
Wearing slippers to work.
So fuzzy and nice.
My manager is tearing through.
Every word is nothing.
Grappling at every pause.
This room is dizzy.
Computer keyboards.
Pens and pencils.
Typing for hours.
And nothing goes my way.
Printing out blank sheets of paper.
Lunch.
Open a lunchbox.
I packed five slices of bread and a spoon.
Tiredness.
I think I left the lamp on at home.
So I drove to some town in Ohio.
A new life attached to me.
Two hours ago, I lived in Michigan my whole life.
And I was tired.
Now I’m totally awake.
My eyes are biting everything.
Everything burns.
Ohio is where you go.
On a little lunch break.
Everything is whimsical.
When you think you’ve lived in Ohio.
And no one believes you.
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