His desk is nightmare huge
swimming through the blueness of his room
His body shakes in robot-jerks
his fingers rattle on your resume
He glances at your life: the yawn
of lonely years you stifled shut
with outstretched dates. You ooze
enthusiasm, alertly cough
You explain the reason for insane acts
Your words have no substance, they sputter and gasp
toward the ceiling, bubbles
from deep-sea divers’ masks
He is younger than you
has never been outside of things
never drowned in the order of his days
or yearned for what he already had
or mourned what he had not yet lost
You cry, you scream, you leap
on the desk and dance, singing
madly to yourself
And when you leave
his door will not close properly
–Published in the Paterson Literary Review
