-Lunches Passing in the Afternoon-

Jen paced. She had windows,
and a scrunch holding her hair
in appropriate tension.
No she didn’t. It was
that friz. And I think
she was in more of a
desk-to-hall yoga pose.
I couldn’t decide if her
pants-suit was a metaphor
or if the yellow broach
pinned it. Like a mustard
stain I was trying to rub
out of my poem. Tiny pieces of
napkin rolling themselves
joints by her face.
What I’m trying to say,
she wasn’t.
And I just ate my sandwich.
Egg salad, oregano, tiny olive oil.
We make our order
and someone wraps it in wax.
Like all lunches should pupate.
Their too-neon peppers drop off,
metamorphose olives.
And there’s Jen.
Half a loaf, with Asiago cheese.
She flaps. The office lights
refuse to yield.
Somewhere a stack of papers
sloughs off; makes an
unappreciated star pattern
on the carpet.
Jen is not available right now,
but if you’d like to leave,
leaving would be good.
She has already had her
yogurt and apple.

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