Ok, so I'm behind. I decided that I actually should follow a prompt. Day 22's prompt from Robert Lee Brewer was to write a poem that involves work. Below is my attempt.
To say, It is what it is, signals defeat. Acceptance doesn’t always set you free
and the heavy stone pressing on your heart each day
as you waddle up the slope of the Fulton Street station
doesn’t make the day go any faster. The fluorescent lights
blind. You are an island in a sea of grey cabinets.
You think, this is what it must have been like for Mrs. Basil
E. Frankeweiler. Mixed up files, yellowing papers, and mildew.
The worn adhesive on a file label wedges itself between papers
Unaware of their original intent. Who knew recycling could feel so liberating?
Letting go gets easier, but the paper still bites
Its cut burns the skin worse than rubbing alcohol
and your mother warned you never to bite your cuticles.
Your underexposed pieces are the most sensitive. What gives?
New skin should be protected if only for a while.
You wait for something to happen.
Make copies. Answer phones. Someone on the other line
is asking you to come home.
Filing and copying as a task always makes me think of Radiohead's Kid A. I have no other explanations to give.