desk

tucked into the corner, by the window
where the sun's rays hurl from behind palms
a wrench and a lever sleep together
inside a plastic folded bag
why am I so drawn to glass surfaces?
box of envelopes, box of checks
where ideas are born, and aborted
I imagine, one day, the glass will shatter
great sabretooth shards will stab my legs
yellow-orange Touch-Lite
living in the Eagle's Nest, a recluse
but for one or two nights a week
in some ways, still just the same as before

back home, the steam factory next to the highway
yawned clouds of hot vapor across the town
turning the air into soup
orange-yellow GIL
the soupy air would clog our nostrils
boiling our gray matter into a frothy head
soupy thoughts, soupy words
everything was soup
now, my blood is soup
a wrinkled dollar bill, a puddle of coins
the heat that forces its way through the glass
seeps into my skin and coats my face with wax
boils my eyes into miniature broth bowls
the sweat from my arm fades the ink
on the pages of my precious notes

in the Eagle's Nest, there is hair everywhere
dog hair clumps on the floor, shed from the heat
as the city drifts closer to the Sun every day