By L.M. Cole
I always pass this elephant at 6:14
when the sun is clambering over the fog.
I ignore it’s presence. Neither of us are morning people.
When I enter the belly of this greyscale monstrosity
it’s 6:53, sometimes 6:54, but the clock accepts me.
It doesn’t have a choice. Hey, it pays the bills.
I measure the rest of the time in empty envelopes
and the mechanic whirring of a fleet of slicing jaws.
There are only so many ways to spell cancel, and I’ve seen them all.
[This person died]
No thanks, here’s something for you.
There’s something comforting and frustratingly human
about scriptures when you were expecting a check.
The clock on the wall says it’s 12:52
and someone in this building just read the word fuck.
It wasn’t the first time today and won’t be the last.
The fuck yous and go to hells sound the death knell
of these once proud titans, stubbornly wheezing out a few more breaths.
At 3:03 I escape them and wonder how long they can keep fighting.
This time when I see him, the elephant in my path nods,
but it's just the leaves trembling in the stirring wind
and I'm just driving home from a job I don't subscribe to.
Hey, it pays the bills.
L.M. Cole is a poet and artist residing on the US East Coast. Her work has been featured or is forthcoming with Roi Fainéant, Corporeal, The Daily Drunk, JAKE, and others. She can be found on Twitter @_scoops__