Job 9-10
One dollar Chuck's, muddied and salted,
escape a network disintegration,
an insignificant download,
my gradebook's confusion and erasure.
Depression in a purple hoodie,
pink splattered up the side and
hair swept over one eye, he dares
not see the world as whole for then
he may be demanded to live in it.
The wind hits the four corners of my
white walls, dulled by blank stares,
apathy destroys some, devours most.
Crowbars of ice cracked my favorite tree,
the brilliant yellow i never see
in the Indiana winter, and constrained
to the older hallway with knotted beams
overhead of the daily abuse of the minutia;
the gnats in my coffee, the furnaces to reset,
the daily laughs i routinely trade for headaches,
the boring light of computer screens.
All around me speaks Almighty, for i have
no control of winter storms and students born
nor the mysteries of work's tyranny.
Everything is spiritual, but today i see
everything is not good?
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