It was an itchy feeling
driving to work
every afternoon
almost-promptly at one.
I’d leave for break
and eat my lunch
in a parking lot
looking like a stalker
with a PB&J fetish.
I would write things on my hands
to remind me
not just of
things to do
but who I was.
I would scrub the counters
and whisper:
“Neruda. Neruda. Neruda.”
and name the salt shakers
after my favorite authors.
Time to fill up Pratchett again.
I would hold interviews in my head
as I poured the coffee.
“When did you start writing, Mr. Palin?
Why, yes, I’ll marry you.”
Could explain why I never got a raise…
but I survived
with my soul intact.
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