and my eyes clench shut like little jaws.
I don't want to admit it,
but I've overslept.
Review the morning's agenda
as I prepare the ritual morning breakfast:
a bowl of cold oatmeal, glass of milk,
and a sweet, unsuspecting orange.
First, a joyless shower,
then a trip through traffic
(where the drivers will ALL be
less considerate than I).
Now the orange is in my hands,
its thick rind fragile under my fingers.
I trace my nails along the surface,
coyly, flirtatiously.
The phone will ring
promptly at 9.
Already I can feel my ear sweat
from the weight of the receiver.
I didn't mean to, but I've pierced
the skin. Pale, plastic rind falls
to the table, and a spray
of citrus mist fills the air.
"You can't yell at the customers,"
they tell you,
"and stop beating the keyboard
against the desk!"
I lift a dripping fragment to my lips and bite down.
One by one, the frail sacs of liquid burst,
and the juice drips down my chin,
slides from my fingers to the table.
I am appeased. I wipe my face
on the back of my hand
like a hungry Neanderthal
in front of Raquel Welch,
and now, when faced
with an unreasonable customer,
I can smile, lower my eyes,
and simply say, "How can I help you?"
Week One, and the project's done. Not my finest effort, I'll admit. There's a gem of a good poem here, I'm sure of it (and I may have drafted a similar poem previously - I don't remember).
The illustration is meant to be in the style of certain artists I admire (Jeff Lemire and Guy Davis) whose illustrations have a sketchier, almost unfinished style to them. They do it better.
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