to whom we owe our fabulous screws

A poem.

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the smitten
are only going to give you
as much grace as they can.
nothing waits forever


unless you work across from them

often turning one-hundred-and-eighty-degrees
in their direction
not for them –
it’s just part of your job description;


accidentally break
at the same time as them,
back-and-forth, braiding one another between
the sink and the toaster oven.

you turn your lunchroom chair around
to not get labelled a creep,
but you still smell that
smelly smell

of their lunch, their Fancy scent,
the Jessica Simpson perfume they chose
over deodorant;
their tone as they show off the
photos of their family on their phone.
you walk out of the restroom same time
they walk in,
and you both put your noses to the ground –
to the shit you’re both stuck in.
what a mess.


somewhere along the way
i learned that my messes
can be swept under stoicism
ah, but don’t wait too long!
remember your manners when
they say hello
under their breath, their back to you,

and now you’ve ignored them, you fool!
joke’s on you.
now you have
til tomorrow
and maybe the day after,


a year ticks by
before someone forgets they’re
standing there.

//wd 3.22.2025

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Original photo by Andrea Piacquadio on Pexels.com.