Winter in Seattle

Rain, steady, dismal, not at all
Threatening, taps on his office
Window. He looks through
The drops at the low gray
Sky, at the streets beneath
It, car-clogged, colorless,
But for the changing traffic
Lights. Stick figures wait
On corners to cross. The clock
On the wall, the one on his
Wrist, the one on the phone
On his desk by his hand
All agree that it's two in
The afternoon. All fail to move
At acceptable speed as he
Fucks with a spreadsheet
And longs to go home.
Why would he want that?
There's nobody there.
Still, books and blankets
Are better than spreadsheets,
And rain on the window
Seems not quite so dismal
When one has a drink
In his hand.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 66 times
Written on 2016-12-20 at 15:02

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