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$15 an Hour
The songs are dying
but I am too busy
weeding subroutines and variables out of my head
to hear their groans
Yet after-hours I hear morbid echos
dissipating amidst rush-hour traffic
Passion is heat, and heat rises
and cools
The songs others have written
will live again on other lips
and never know the difference
But mine will
continue crawling beneath pay stubs and lunch breaks
calling me
with shrill, piteous voices
but never surfacing
I Am Standing Still
It may not look that way,
but I am standing still.
I have no real evidence,
but I do know for certain
that nothing has moved me for a long time.
If this was not so,
would I be here
typing words so lacking in rhythm
that they stand fixed on the page?
No backspace,
no liquid white,
could alter their dispirited faces
and change them from the monochrome monotone that they are
to their antonyms flushed with excitement.
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