Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Working during the Holidays
the computer whines a breathy flatline,
its mechanical thoughts heat circuits and chips
until a fan blows it cool enough to crunch
more numbers. My screen grows words
from zeroes and ones. My speaker sings carols.
Every job becomes a kind of house arrest
on days too gray to call vacation.
But I can still say thanks here between
a desk and credenza. Driving past the Guadalupe
between cedar woods and limestone hills,
I blasted hot air from the dash until my knuckles burned.
Just past Comfort the highway climbed above the fog
and I stopped by the house to feed my dogs, smiling
when they whined and jumped and licked my hand
as if to say, "Thank you, thank you, Master Man."
(I wrote the first draft of this little poem during the Thanksgiving holiday, but I found it this morning. With 2/3 of the office still out for Christmas it seemed like a good project for my fifteen minute break...)
HillCountryWriter Category: Poetry
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