10

roulette

they could have been
more careful.
locked the supply room
door. hid behind
paper boxes
or picked a less overt
position. perhaps from behind
it would resemble
the heimlich.
but time
and interest
were at a premium.
and her boxy hips
were a shelf
on which to rest his
yellow paisley tie.
and the waffle patterned
papercutter was a pillow
on which to rest
her virtuous
face. 4 inches from the blade.
both thinking of someone else.
hope hoping
some poor admin needing to use
the postage machine
would walk in on solid
proof and spread the word: that they are
still wanted.
still reckless
in ways that only happen
when you're wanted.
still functional. still
capable of owning
a blank space. and not bound
by a handbook
or touched in any way
by an italic motivator
at the foot of golf course
mounted on the copy room wall.
and as he closes in on her
and as she closes around him
he stares
at the doorknob
and she stares
at the blade
and they both make a wish. and get
nothing. but lose
nothing. sorry.
try again.

by Cat

my goal in poetry is to gently
whittle away every bit of sentimentality,
faith, bravado and passion
from my day to day conversations
and leave myself appropriately unopinionated.
freedom. expression. beauty.
hope. fanciful delusions.
i hate myself for believing.