Writing poems at work
Instead of writing notes
Measuring affect and hygiene
How do we tell how well we are?
Well enough to wash and dress and get on the bus
The last time I wrote poems at work I got fired
I also sent sexts to a boy from the marble tiled bathroom
And took long walks uphill to the cathedral
To light candles and pray
Well enough now I eat lunch across the street
When there are twenty minutes to spare
Watch the dogs and traffic and cranes
Less praying, less sexting, these days
I buy coffee from a redhead with a new tattoo
She pushes up her sleeve, “for my brother
Who died this year” and makes my latte
I want to invite her upstairs but maybe she is
Well enough taking orders, steaming milk
Frank O’Hara wrote poems at lunch
Away from the museum it can be done
In between phone calls and meetings
Writing notes that say things like
Pervasive pattern of instability
Noticing the light on the face
Of the person sitting across from me
As their grief grips them by the gut
And we talk about hope and what
Well enough could possibly actually mean
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