The copier coughs up page twenty-nine My little cactus leans toward the blinds I fold my timesheet into a paper crane And give it tiny wings for the windowpane The clock chews minutes, slow and neat My shoes are tapping under the seat I sign my name, then draw a door A secret exit on the office floor I’m slipping out through the garden gate Past the inbox and the conference slate Leave my badge in a bowl of daisies Go where the afternoon turns wavy No more tiny boxes telling me when I’ll be a bright little comet again The vending machine hums a lavender tune A paperclip moon floats up to the room I wave to the fern by the breakroom sink It nods like it knows what I’m about to think The clock chews minutes, slow and neat I draw a map on a sticky note sheet One dotted line past the loading bay A pocket of sky is a blink away I’m slipping out through the garden gate Past the inbox and the conference slate Leave my badge in a bowl of daisies Go where the afternoon turns wavy No more tiny boxes telling me when I’ll be a bright little comet again At the crosswalk, the clouds look handmade A bus sighs open like a lemonade stand I call my sister: “Save me a seat” She says, “Bring your odd little office feet” I’m skipping home through the garden gate With a pocket full of unspent day Leave my badge in a bowl of daisies Let the whole wide sidewalk go wavy No more tiny boxes telling me when I’m a bright little comet again My cactus waits in the window light I’ll tell it everything tonight
