words for
people who
hate poetry.

You had one job,
a simple task,
and yet you chose
to email the whole company
about your lunch order.

We did not need to know.
We will never need to know.
And still, somehow,
we all know.

I signaled first.
I waited patient,
blinker ticking
like a metronome
of common decency.

You did not see me.
You did not care.
The spot was never mine
to begin with,
but neither was it yours.

Forty-seven messages
since Tuesday.
None of them
for me.

Still I open it,
still I scroll,
a small red number
asking to be forgiven.

Unexpected item
in the bagging area.
Aren't we all.

A machine asks me
to confirm I am human.
Some days, I am not so sure.