to write a fresh simple poem
using the leftover ring
of the coffee mug
on this
nicked up but otherwise stark wooden table
as its edgeless center
I jotted this morning
after the second cup
with hasty
notes toward indelibility
of seeming infinity plus
its remainder
a good reminder
of pure luck and a good
frame to focus
on how loss works.
Some telescopically deep
task for an image—now
how in the whole of hell
is this rumpled old secretary:
my afternoon self
supposed to go
about tidying up after
a boss like that?
