ALTER iD
Published in Coconut
From nine to six I watch airplanes descend
I collate, I make coffee, I staple
Its my job to walk from workspace to workspace
No one has ever mistaken me for a bird
We ride an elevator to the roof to smoke
Memos suggest that we delete wayward narratives
Keyboards rustle like Balinese mallets
Much of the mass of the universe is toner
After fifty copies of my eyes I can finally see
And whats a mask but a sieve for numbers
I spend lunch with the insignia catalogue
The Old Glory near the helipad is at half-mast
The Brainteaser has troubles, too, I guess
Were not dreaming; we just cant work our lids
Memos urge me to cease feeding mice
And then a fly exits the ointment, makes tracks
Is someone famous dead or just history?
After lunch I wrap my cape around my face
I stop at each station, point, smile, ask: your kid?
Someone yells eggbeater! and we make haste